Mending Hearts and Sealing Fates
by Losille2000
Summary: A young widow, now living with her brother's family, has always had a love for mystery, magic and intrigue. The stories surrounding the strange happenings of the Paris Opera rekindle a fire in her she has forgotten... On permanent Hiatus
1. L'Opera

_**Title:** Mending Hearts and Sealing Fates  
__**Author:** Losille2000__  
**Pairing:** Phantom (Erik)/ OFC. Would have loved to see Christine and Erik together, but she's just a little too whiny and innocent for my tastes.  
**Rating:** Now, PG-13. Possibly R later on.  
**WARNING:** This is a Phantom/Original Character story. Based off of play/movie. May slip a few things from the book in. There are so few things one can write about in this fandom when doing a romance, so I hope not to step on anyone's toes while writing story. I am trying to make this as original as possible so bear with me._

_**Disclaimer: **I do not own the book by Gaston Leroux, or the play by ALW, or the movie by ALW and Joel Schumacher. Wish I owned the Opera Populaire, and Erik, but alas that would only happen in my dreams. Some very good dreams, I might add. Gerard Butler's Phantom is my favorite thus far, and he is the one I am modeling this Erik after.  
**Feedback:** Please drop a note and let me know how this is going! Used to Lord of the Rings Fanfic, so want to know how my leap to Phantom Phanphic is being received!  
**Summary/Notes:** A young widow, now living with her brother's family, has always had a love for mystery, magic and intrigue. The stories surrounding the strange happenings of the Paris Opera open up a world of interest and rekindle a fire in her she has forgotten in the past years after losing her beloved husband. _

_Thank you to Mandy the O for the go ahead to post this!  
_

_A/N: Period of mourning in Victorian culture was 2 ½ years. Women did not wear black for the entire time, it was a personal choice if they did or not._

_Words to know: _

_Tantine- Auntie_

_Duc- Duke_

_Marchioness- Female title for one married to a Marquess (Marquis) in England_

Chapter 1- L'Opera

Constance had forgotten just how dreary and dirty Paris could be. She sat in front of the of the large windowpane, looking out on the damp cobblestone streets of Paris. It was a particularly busy day despite the horrid weather that had hammered the city since the earlier morning hours, only relenting the past hour or so to a light, semi-livable drizzle. The only true cheerfulness present this day was the children dressed in their play clothes jumping about, splashing and kicking water at each other in the large puddles. Adults tried to dodge these oncoming sprays of water as they walked by, some not so lucky and their trousers were more often than not doused with the dirty water. The heavily-bustled women gathered their skirts in vain trying to keep them from dragging along on the ground. Polite men, that she had noticed Paris was never in lack of, offered their services to the women with holding the bustles as they got into carriages. Some of the women's dresses were so colorful and intricate… so unlike her own.

It would definitely be odd to wear a bright dress again, after so long without.

She glanced down at her dress, and sighed tiredly, noting glumly that this shade of black had turned grey over the past years in mourning and it's many washings. Perhaps it was only her dour mood, and wearing this dress that made this afternoon so dreary. It would be two and a half years in only a days time, and still she could not come to terms with the fact that she was alone and that her husband was gone. She wondered if she would ever forget him, or the joy he brought to her life… the energetic music swirling through the hallways of their home, from the grand piano in the parlor. Or those times in the evening she was weary and he would play her a soft tune to ease her mind into another, calmer place. Or his spontaneous bouts of energy that often had him talking her into accompanying him on trips all over Europe. As infectious as his smile was, she knew it would be his full laugh (that had first drawn her to him) and resulting reddened cheeks that she would miss most.

Their marriage was one of the few of true love matches amongst the French and English society men and women riddled with arranged marriages only for monetary and status gain. They were shunned by the others most of the time, society thinking that their level of gaiety and love for each other was beyond respectable, if not downright offensive for such high-borne persons. And she knew they gossiped and laughed about them when they learned of her husband's passing in a horrible riding accident. Sometime she wondered what the women specifically whispered about, especially since the women were more vocal about the distastefulness of their relationship, but she had a strong sense that it had to do with her now being unable to shove the happy life together with her husband in the others' faces. Only slightly displeased about the way they acted back in England, she knew that had they been in France and in France's rapidly declining nobility, the snobbery could have been much worse.

A crack of thunder shook the windowpane, and interrupted her sad thoughts. She jumped back from her window seat taking a few deep, calming breaths. It really was fright to be interrupted like that when one was in such a deep state of thought. Soon the sound of small shoes on the wooden floor found her ears, and the door was cast open with a loud bang against the wall. In ran her young nephew, Alexandre, his dark floppy hair falling in his eyes. She smiled softly and bent down to scoop him up into her arms, knowing his utter fright of thunderstorms.

"Tantine will you come sit with me while I do my lessons?" he asked, holding onto her neck for dear life. "The thunder scared me."

She smiled and brushed a piece of his dark hair out of his eyes, "That would depend entirely on what lessons you are doing. If it happens to be arithmetic, you best wait for your father to come home."

"No, it is writing," he said.

"Well then," she said, placing him back on the ground, "let us get to your lessons."

"Do you know where Mama and Papa are?" he questioned, walking beside her toward his designated play and lesson room.

Constance glanced down at him, "I do not know. Your father said he had business today about an acquisition of property, and your mother must have some important tea to take because she would not leave the house in this weather otherwise."

"Papa said he was going to L'Opera today, but that was in the morning," Alexandre said.

She had heard nothing of that. Her brother was to go to the Opera Populaire? To do what exactly? Granted, she had only just come back to France to live with her brother Olivier and his family, and was not yet familiar with the day to day pursuits of Olivier's business matters, but she had heard the rumors of a ghost and of the tragedy that had occurred there not a year earlier that shut it down. What was his interest in the Opera coming from? He had never been exceptionally enthralled by the arts, least of all music, dancing and singing. Perhaps he was buying it to turn it into something else, though she hoped he did not do that. She had seen the opera house in all of it's elegant glory when it was first constructed and would consider it sacrilege to harm such a marvelous structure even with it's checkered past.

"I am sure that whatever he is doing, we will find out soon enough," Constance finally replied, looking down at him. Soon they were deeply embroiled in the learning of the correct way to form the alphabet in lowercase letters. Alexandre was such a bright child for his age, and she could see quite a future ahead of him especially since his parents had the ways and means to give him the best education and attention France had to offer. But he was always a delight to speak to, always the most gracious and soft-spoken boy she had ever met. That was a great testament to his parents' skills and own manners, being sure not to bring him up as a spoiled brat, like most of the children she had met going about in these circles.

"Now, how do you make a letter 'D'?" he questioned. She smiled and leaned over him, taking his hand and guiding him along.

A few hours passed quickly, but she had not noticed just how involved they were until hearing the door to the room creaked menacingly open. Alexandre wasted no time in dropping his pen and running for his mother who now stood at the door. "He was worried you would not make it home, Joséphine."

The blonde woman laughed, her blue eyes lighting up, "Because of the thunder?"

"Yes," Constance said with a nod, noting the new diamond-encrusted brooch resting just below the low neckline of Joséphine's pale pink evening dress. She must have gone out with Olivier, or she would not have acquired the large, yet tasteful pin.

Joséphine smiled, and turned back to Alexandre, "Let us get you down to the bath Danielle was preparing for you when I came in a few minutes ago."

With a resigned sigh, she went to cleaning up Alexandre's mess after watching them leave the doorway. Constance sat on her cushioned stool, collecting the book of blank pages and various writing utensils into one small pile, paying special reverence to these artifacts, her preferred mode of expression. Some people had their music, some their dance, or art, but she had her writing. That was until her husband had passed on. She had not picked up a pen with more than an intent to write short correspondences in the past years, and she never knew if she would do so again. Only if her mind could be set free from this torture, would she ever be able to write well.

"How long has it been, Connie?" came the rough, deep voice from behind her.

She jumped and swiveled around quickly, finding her brother's dark shadow leaning against the door jam. "You scared me!"

He chuckled, "I am quite sorry, I did not mean to give you a fright."

"I do not believe that, Oli," she pursed her lips together and turned back, finishing her task hastily. "You always did that on purpose when we were children, why would you change now?"

"This is a good question," he said. "But then I have to ask, why does it still bother you? I would think you to be conditioned to it by now."

Constance shook her head and rolled her eyes, "No one would ever get used to it."

Olivier nodded his head and removed himself from the door jam, walking into the soft lamp light in the darkened room. He looked around briefly, unbuttoning the buttons of his frock coat and smoothing back his black hair. She watched him as he carefully sat in a small seat across from her, smiling softly, "How long has it been?"

"How long has what been?" she questioned.

"Since you wrote anything," he replied.

Constance sighed and looked away from him, "Why do you ask?"

"You must think me a fool Connie," he said. "I know well the look of detached sadness your faces takes when you are thinking about something like this."

"I did not know I was so obvious," she said and stood up, walking to the window and looking out on the darkening city. The sound of Olivier's hard-soled shoes shuffling on the wood floor alerted her to the fact that he was joining her, but she did not feel like bothering to turn around. She sighed, "I see no use in writing of far-off places and fanciful sword fights and magic any longer, Olivier. And least of all do I see a reason to writing of fantastical love story, when I know now that nothing like that could ever last."

He let out a long breath and did not deign to reply for quite a long while, seemingly quite hesitant as though he were trying to think of the best way to phrase what he was about to say. "It has been two and half years, Connie. I cannot bear to see you continue on in this pattern. This is not you, moping about all day in black and thinking there is no more reason to life than just to be miserable. You are a Marchioness in Britain. Your husband left you such a great amount of wealth… You could do so much. And besides that, you are the beloved sister of a Duc of France. I would see to it you had a wonderful life if you let me."

"Your title does not necessarily mean what it used to with the revolutions, dear brother," she remarked.

"No, it does not," he nodded his head in agreement, "but we still have privileges others do not."

Constance watched as curtains of rain fell outside the window onto the street two stories below. "It seems that the weather mirrors my mood."

"It does not have to," he said. "Please, Connie, William would have wanted you to move on. It is the only thing you can do to keep on living a decent life. You will go mad soon enough if you have nothing to occupy your time."

"I know," she replied, feeling tears prick at the back of her eyes. Crying had become a daily occurrence for her, and she hated letting the grief overcome her so much that she had to let it out somehow. It truly was not like her… she was the least likely woman to cry over anything. "I was just that William was my reason for living for so long, I feel as though I cannot, or will not, ever find that again."

He sighed softly and took her into his arms. Olivier was never one for outright affection, but he was always there for moments when she needed his support the most. As quickly as he embraced her, though, he set her free and turned to walk toward the door. However, he stopped at the straight-back chair an sat down. "I have a business proposition for you."

"Business proposition, Olivier? You would let a woman speak her mind on such matters?" she questioned chidingly, brushing away the tears that never quite spilled over, and cleared her throat.

He scoffed, "You know that I value your advice, even though it is often ill-guided."

Constance rolled her eyes and walked to the chair opposite him, sitting carefully down so as not to smash her bustle. She sighed, "What is it? A way to get me thinking of other things again?"

"In a way, yes," he nodded.

"Well, do not keep in suspense," she replied.

"You were probably wondering where Joséphine and I were for such a long while," he began.

Constance shrugged, "Alexandre said you had plans at the Opera Populaire today."

Olivier chuckled and shook his head, "He can run his mouth sometimes."

"Like his father," she remarked.

"But yes, we both went to the Palais Garnier today," he said. "I had not realized the devastation of the auditorium left after the chandelier falling and the subsequent fire. My point for visiting, though, was that the managers wish to sell it. After their rather discouraging beginning in the arts, they have taken the past year to decide what they wish to do with it. Remodel it and open the doors again, or unload it and the stories surrounding it from their worries. They have finally decided that their talents are better used in their scrap metal business, which I would tend to agree with."

"I see," she said.

"We know your love for music, Connie, and how well you can run such a large household in England. I know running an opera house has little to do with running a household, but your skill in delegating tasks and making tough decisions would make you the perfect manager of our newly purchased Opera House…"

* * *

"I do hope that they agree to buy," said Firmin, brushing the dust covered seat in the long-abandoned manager's office. "I would so much like to be rid of this horror." 

Erik could not help but laugh at the remark from the rather foolhardy manager. He had warned them well that tragedy would befall them if they did not do as he said, and yet they still chose to do everything against his wishes. It would have been quite simple for them to cast Christine, give him his box and his stipend. They could have had quite a peaceful coexistence in this opera house if they had seen the genius in his casting and in his work. And yet, he was glad that they had not… he had put so much work into helping Christine, only for her to step on it in the end. She did not deserve his mentorship after going off with that whiny excuse of a Vicomte.

But then, who was he to rule over love? The powerful Phantom? The evil Opera Ghost? Those meant nothing in the realm of love. No, he was just Erik, a man who had never really felt loved in his life. No, now that recalled, no one ever truly loved him. He had only ever poured his deepest and most sincere love onto others, and found himself hurt every single time he had let his heart out of it's cage, trusting that they would return it. There was no other like Christine, and he was very sure there never would be; there would never be another woman of such sweet innocence and ungratefulness. And while there was a faint glimmer of hope with her for a stretch of time that she could change and see past his problems, he was quickly replaced when the Vicomte was named Patron.

It was obvious that Christine and the Vicomte had fallen so deeply in love after that performance of _Il Muto_, and it was his jealousy that flared toward the Vicomte that night that he could not control and had led to everything else. That was what had ruled his actions in the long run… his jealousy, not his pure love for Christine. In a way, he knew that Christine deserved much better than him, and that he had grasped at straws for such a long time trying to keep her with him against her will, but it hurt no less to see her kissing that man and professing her love to him. What it had damaged most was his _hope_, the only thing good he had left in his mind. Hope that one day he would be loved and accepted like a regular person. There was always a good amount of it until that night.

The kiss de Changy shared with her was nothing like the one Christine had given him in a moment of desperation. In her kiss, before he let them escape, he had sensed something odd. She had, for a time, held a respect for him that could have been love, but he was the one responsible for changing that, not the Vicomte. Even though she may have held that affection for him at one point, there was something quite unmistakable missing from the passion in her kiss. At the time he had not been able to place exactly what it was lacking, but after a few moments ofthought, he knew she would never be able to give him her complete surrender of heart. He would never have her true love. As much as she kissed him with as much affection as she could manage, it was evident fear and pity were the only things there. He would not be able to live with that for the rest of his life.

Ultimately, it was his jealousy and his rage that had caused that fear and pity, and placed her in between two men dueling for her love. Aye, it was entirely his fault for what had happened.

And yet, he knew he would always love her, perhaps more than the one she was wed to, but he had never been able to truly show that to her, not with all the sordid happenings of L'Opera and his blind greed.

He sighed heavily, adjusting his black cloak on his shoulders, peering down from the tall rafters in the ceiling. Everything seemed to remind him of Christine, even the simple drafts blowing across the unmasked portion of his face, always spurring these thoughts.

The other, slightly less dense manager, André, now glanced up from the paper he was looking over, "Are we sure we wish to sell it for this little?"

"No one will buy it, if we do not keep it this low, André," Firmin replied.

"There is considerable work to be done, and then with the worries of the Ghost, I do agree," André said

Firmin rolled his eyes, "Do you really think he stayed here after what happened? It would be most unwise."

"I just cannot get over the feeling that his presence is still here," André sighed. He had always been the more intuitive of the two.

"Why do you worry? It will not be one of our worries if the Duc de Louvois takes it," Firmin said.

The other nodded and placed the paper back down on the dust-covered desk, "I feel it immoral."

"Now you are going to start worrying about morals? You should have worried about that a long time ago, messieurs," Erik found himself remarking under his breath.

"As I continue to say, he is not here. There is no music or beautiful women to keep him here," Firmin laughed and stood from his seat.

Now that was uncalled for. Granted, he always found Christine to be special among all of the chorus girls, but it was not her doe eyes or her soft smile that had truly attracted him. After all, she had been very young when they started with their lessons. It would have been wrong for him to think of her in that way, however much time passed and he began to realize that she was grown and exceptionally gorgeous. Which often made him wonder why he thought he had ever had a chance with her to begin with, even with his element of control of her mind.

Nay, it was the instant she opened her mouth and spoke with the soft, smooth voice that was a strong characteristic of a possible singing ability. It was the instant he realized that she was a lost lamb, searching for someone to take her and guide her along to become the best she could be. It was the instant she consented to him, allowing him to teach her.

He bit his lip. He was doing it again. Thinking of her again. At least he was getting better at stopping himself before the thoughts completely took over and plunged him to a greater state of depression than he was already experiencing.

"I still think we should warn him," André replied. "It is the only respectable thing to do."

"No, André," Firmin responded resolutely. "We will not, besides, he still seemed quite keen on buying it anyway. I want this worry off of my back. Besides, he said it was just to be a hobby for his daughter or sister or something. Some relation. They will be here tomorrow to make a final decision."

Erik perked up at that. The Opera was an awfully expensive gift to give to a distant relation for a hobby, even if the business partners below were selling it for dirt. What kind of person would buy this masterpiece of a theatre and turn it over to some woman who probably knew nothing about the opera and ballet to begin with? But it was not his lot to stop it now. He would wait to see if they sold it. At least André and Firmin would be gone.

"Come, André, old chap," Firmin said. "We have a dinner party to attend."

He waited until the lamps were snuffed out and the friends left the room. Now to prepare for his guests.


	2. The Woman Manager

**_A/N: I intend to have regular updates… I am a fiend when it comes to writing. What I must warn, though, is that a chapter a week is all I can try to manage. I have university work and my other stories to work on, but I will more than likely remain faithful to at least a chapter a week._**

_**Please remember to review, and I hope you enjoy!**_

Chapter 2- The Woman Manager

The coach came to a stop with a slight jolting motion rather shortly after the ride began on this decidedly brighter, sunnier day than the last few. Constance let out a shallow sigh, now hearing the hustle and bustle of the street clearly outside of the closed-roof carriage. Glancing out the side window to the right, she saw a good number of people sharing their meals together at a nearby delicatessen. Out the back window, people were moving from shop to shop on their daily business. And to her left, she could see the arched stone façade of the lower portion of the Opera House. A slight flutter went through her stomach then, though she could not be sure if it was nervousness for setting back out into the world after her mourning, or excitement for this opportunity that Olivier was giving her.

That was when the formalities of getting off the carriage started. She always found it quite humorous how humans chose to act, precisely in the same manner, over such a simple thing as getting out of a carriage. It was like a well orchestrated waltz, and each person had to be there at the exact moment or there would be some type of fodder to have to quell in the circles of gossips, which was obviously much worse than accidentally bumping into someone or stepping on their toes. Of course it was more a society thing, and if you were seen not giving the appropriate attention to a lady within the carriage it was considered a crime above all crimes for the people of Victorian society. It seemed such a backward world at times, that people would care so much about the protocol for a foolish thing like this, and care less about other things like aiding others in need of help.

A valet came around and opened the door, and Olivier was the first to step out onto the curb. After straightening his frock coat and placing his hat atop his head, he turned back to offer his hand to her, even before Joséphine. Constance smiled and took his hand, gathering as much of her skirts she could before stepping down onto the first step. Once she was out and standing on the sidewalk, she took her time looking over the entrance, slowly moving her eyes up the detailed stone work, to the two large copper-green statues of angels placed at either side of the roof, off setting the numerous stone sculptures along the entrances depicting rather risqué scenes of nude women. And those were just the few she noticed right away.

When she left Paris for her marriage to William, L'Opéra was just become a realization and she had not seen the finished project until this moment. If the outside was this breathtaking, she could not imagine what the inside was like, even with the problems Olivier had told her of last night.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?"

Constance turned to see Joséphine standing beside her and gazing up at the large monument of baroque fashioning. "Yes it is."

The blonde woman smiled, "Come now, Olivier will leave us here if we do not catch up with him."

She realized then that Olivier had already made his way up the front steps and was standing at the door with two gentlemen. One was shorter than the other, both dressed in the highest fashion with smug looks on their faces. Quickly, she and Joséphine made their way toward them, and Olivier introduced the two men with a half smile on his features.

"This is M. André," Olivier motioned to the shorter one, and then to the other who had a slightly suspicious air about him, "and M. Firmin."

"Messieurs, it is good to see you again," Joséphine nodded her head politely.

And Firmin smiled, turning to her, "And you must be the ravishing mademoiselle the Duc has spoken so much about."

Constance cleared her throat, "Messieurs, it is Madame, and flattery will not sell this opera more quickly."

They looked rather shocked that she had said that, but Olivier only shook his head with a small chuckle. Her brother looked at the men, "You must forgive my dear sister, she speaks her mind quite often. Now, if you do not mind, I would like a short tour before I sign anything."

André nodded with an appreciative smile at her before looking at Olivier, "Why of course, Monsieur le Duc."

A valet de chambre stopped them upon entering, taking their cloaks and coats. Their tour commenced, with the current managers showing off various aspects of the mind boggling, marbled foyers and hallways, statues and staircases. Soon they entered the main theatre area, and she indeed saw the destruction left by the fire. Though she was happy to note to herself that the damage was not as extensive as she had thought it would be. Only the front rows and some of the stage would need a comprehensive rebuilding, as well as the orchestra pit. The tour ended when they stopped on top of the huge stage and viewed the openness of the theatre. She sighed, looking around again in the dim light, wishing that the footlights were on. At least that would have given them a little more light in the room. She was sure it was magnificent in full light, even with the layers of dust and debris about.

"Well then, now that we have seen it, I think we should discuss the sale," Olivier remarked.

"Very good," Joséphine said, walking to her husband.

"I think I will continue on backstage, and snoop about a bit," Constance said, glancing at Joséphine.

The current managers looked worried for a moment, and André spoke quickly, "Perhaps it is better that you do not stray backstage."

She raised a curious brow, "And why would that be, Monsieur? If you are hiding anything, messieurs, tell me now."

André began to say something but Firmin shot him a silencing glare and spoke for him, "It is dark and you can become easily lost, Madame. Take it from someone who has done so many times."

"If my brother so does oblige you with taking the Opera Populaire off your minds, then I will be the one to run it," she responded. "I believe that if I do not start learning now, I will be no use later on."

"But Madame," André said quickly. "It would be unwise, and on our good conscience could not let you wander alone."

"Then perhaps one of you will accompany me? I am sure it will only take one of you to come to a contract with my brother," she said, realizing that Olivier and Joséphine were now watching this bantering with an amused look on each of their faces.

The two managers looked at each other briefly, and Firmin sighed, "She is correct, my friend. She will be fine."

Olivier sighed, "Now may we retire to your offices to discuss this?"

Constance stood still and watched them retreat to the right, until she was left in the eerie stillness on the room. She let out a sigh, and looked around again, "It is no wonder they had troubles as managers."

-

* * *

- 

Erik chuckled lowly to himself, hearing that last bit from the as of yet nameless woman below him. That was a true problem that the manager's possessed- the inability to take opposition from a woman, like Madame Giry. But it was only _one_ of their many problems. They had, after all, never been extremely cut out for these positions in such a fine opera house. Just because one was French and rich, did not mean that they would be adequate in their knowledge of the arts, or that they particularly cared about it in the first place. It was more a status symbol than anything.

What a saddening day it was when they were named as Lefevre's replacements. At least Lefevre had some good taste, and honestly not much to work with in La Carlotta, Although he made sure to make the best of the Opera without Christine. It was simply a shambles to place André and Firmin in the managerial position. It took a certain amount of knowledge of opera, though, to be involved with it, if they truly wanted to be so involved in it, and not necessarily equipped with the knowledge of the purely managerial duties they had signed on for. And two men who had made their fortunes in the manufacturing of scrap metal, could not contend with the delicate orchestration of an opera or ballet of any size.

The woman looked about, up at the rafters then, as though she knew he was there. He moved further back into the shadows, worried that he may be seen, but she only sighed again and began to walk further backstage. Except, he was even more worried about the state the opera house would be in now, with this Duc and his family in charge. Perhaps they would just be over-blown windbag Patrons like the Vicomte and his family. But he had to admit that he was impressed at how the woman had handled herself with the current managers. It told him that she could, at least, stand up for herself- a trait not commonly seen in women of the age..

He followed along in the rafters after her, watching her closely as she ran her fingers over the gilded edge of a prop that had remained since the last performance in the Opera Populaire. She removed her fingers, inspecting the layer of dust closely, saying aloud to no one, "All this palace of music needs is a good cleaning and some repair to the main theatre."

Erik sighed to himself, feeling slightly content at the moment with the prospect of this woman running the theatre. She seemed to know exactly what the opera needed, as it was still as majestic as the day it had opened. It would be a big change for many to have a woman in the position of manager, but perhaps that was all they had needed in the long run… a woman's touch. That was all _he_ needed, but never received… Yes both he and the Opera Populaire needed a truly feminine touch. Christine's touch…

No Christine… she was gone and would not be coming back.

He watched as she stopped at the line of dressing rooms, and tried to decide which one she would go into first. She finally decided upon the one directly in front of her, which had been, at one point, Madame Giry's private room. And even though he could not follow her inside the room over the rafters, he did know well how to get to the passage that would lead him to her room. It was one he had learned long ago, when Giry was first named ballet mistress, and one he used regularly to speak with her about the happenings of the Opera House. He moved quickly about the passageways, and finally made it soundlessly into the room through the trap door in the floor, conveniently placed behind the opaque changing screen.

Erik knew he was risking being seen by coming into the room and blatantly moving past the screen to a better vantage point up a set of stairs to his right into a sort of loft, but he was intrigued by this creature now making her way slowly through the room, surveying it with the greatest amount of attention to detail. Even though he was a good distance away, he could see her making mental notes to herself, each time her murky hazel eyes came across something. But he also found something else there- something she was trying her hardest to mask. To most people, she might have seemed the picture of complacence, but he, who had noticed the same empty look in his eyes each time he glanced in a mirror, knew that she was living with a terrible amount of grief over something. Or discontentment… he could not tell which was most prevalent, but they were certainly both there. And she wore a mask too in her smile, but it was not nearly as blatant as his own.

Perhaps it was a creature who could empathize with him, though he knew she would not be suffering from his same ailments. It was actually quite the opposite of the root of his problems, he was sure, as her face was quite pretty. Not beautiful by any regard, but classically pretty. She had a certain sort of friendliness etched onto her face, despite the empty look in her eyes and the guise of the smile. It was a refined elegance that followed her, that few other women had mastered in their lives, even those of high birth. She carried her head high, like a proper lady, her back straight, and dressed to the highest peak of fashion and excess. This woman would certainly make a formidable business partner for what he had heard earlier, and from what he was seeing now. She seemed to only desire the best, so that would mean good things for his Opera.

Yes, now he truly beginning to like the idea of this woman as his manager, as so many new hopes for a brilliant opera company began to arise in his mind again. But for now, he would retire to his home and compose a note for her- a note that would test her to see if she would back out of doing this knowing that he, the Opera Ghost, was alive and certainly not planning to leave anytime soon.

"Connie…" there came a call from outside the room. So her name was Connie… it was an odd name. Most women of high breeding did not go by a different moniker than their given one. Actually, most expected to be addressed by their title. He imagined that Connie was a derivative of Constance, nonetheless, and he found that a comfort to think that her namesake was that of steadfastness. Though, that could also mean bad things if she was set in her ways and did not see the beauty of his advisements.

The woman turned around and glanced toward the door, calling, "I am in here Olivier."

Soon the man who was to purchase the Opera found the room and entered. They looked much alike with the same black hair and hazel eyes, so he imagined they were the relations the managers had been referring to. The man walked up beside her, placing a hand upon her back, "What do you think about it, my darling sister?"

Erik sighed, hearing for certain that they were brother and sister. And it made his mind wonder, did he have any brothers and sisters? Had his mother been too ashamed of her first child, that she swore off any others? If she did have other children, were they afflicted with the same ailment as he and cast aside in the same manner? Would they have cared for him, or would he have cared for them, as these siblings seemingly did? This was certainly an avenue he had not found himself wandering upon once in his life, until now and seeing these two people together. But he found quickly that it was just another painful prospect to consider.

He was glad when she spoke, taking his mind away from those thoughts. Connie sighed, "Now that I see it, I can see little work I will have to do, besides direct everyone."

"That is true," Olivier, the brother, said with a nod of his head. "They are selling it for a cheap price, even though there really is nothing wrong with it. That is why I see it as a good business opportunity."

"Are you sure you wish me to do this?" she questioned. "You are putting a great deal of trust in my abilities."

"I have faith," the brother replied with a small smile. "You love music, and you will see to it that only the best musicians and performers work here."

So she loves music. That was a good start… but did she have any talent or knowledge in Opera?

"I can see and hear what I like, Olivier. Knowing if someone is talented, however, I have no true base," she said, and let out a long, contemplative breath. "But I am willing to try."

The brother smiled, "André and Firmin are leaving the names of the various performers and workers who were here before the disaster. They say that most would probably return, even the higher performers. Possibly even La Carlotta."

Erik felt his entire body tense. If they put that pompous, tone-deaf eyesore back on the stage, he would truly have to see it that the rebuilding of the Opera did not start. He would never stand for it, not after all of his troubles in the past with that vile diva.

And Connie grunted, contorting her face into a bitter look, as though she had just consumed a sour lemon. "Have you ever heard that woman on stage?"

"I have, and I thought she was quite good," Olivier said. "Went over the top sometimes, but she was good."

She laughed and patted his arm, "And that is why I am running your Opera for you."

"You would not have her as Prima Donna?" the brother questioned with a genuine amount of surprise.

"Not at all. I saw her once perform at an Opera in London," Connie said. "She may be able to sing her part, but I can act much better than she, and that is saying little about my acting abilities."

Olivier laughed, "That is true. You could not act your way out of a bag if you tried."

Erik, at this point, was so pleased beyond words that this woman agreed with him about La Carlotta, that he could not listen to the rest of the conversation happening below him. This seemed quite ideal for him, and the rest of France. If they could keep that diva away, then all of the arts of Paris would flourish. He had heard enough… now he would sit down to compose a letter to her.


	3. Notes

_This is a fly-by updating between classes…. So to my lovely reviewers: N.G., CelticStorms and Aulizia- Just a quick thank you for the reviews on the previous chapter, and I am glad that all of you are enjoying it! Oh, and there just might be a place in the story yet for Messieurs André and Firmin, Aulizia. _

Chapter 3- Notes

One long week passed Constance by as Olivier finalized the transference of the deeds and trusts for the purchase of the Opera Populaire. However, that short week had also allowed her to see to hiring contractors and other workers who would start the day her brother took over ownership of the theatre. After a day of meeting with these contractors, she found that it would be much more difficult for other to see her as an authority figure amongst a world of men who thought women the most fragile and even somewhat dense creatures who only cared about the people they held company with and to which galas they were invited. Not that she could quite blame the men for that, though. The upper crust of society always placed a certain amount of importance on women who they could see and not necessarily hear, and that eventually carried down to the lower classes, because they tried to model themselves after the rich people. She had no doubt it was quite a surprising thing to be invited into the Duc de Louvois' home for a business meeting, only to find that it would be a woman running the show.

She could not wait for the other large players in French society to take notice of her new career, and frown upon it. But she truly did not care. They could shun her from their circles all they wanted, for she was finally beginning to see the light at the end of the long, dark tunnel she had been passing through the past few years. Of course her grief was still present, and would forever be there coupled with her loneliness, but the challenges she had been presented in just the past, short week, were enough to take her mind off those things.

Truthfully, while this proposition from her brother had not really sparked an interest in her in the first place, after walking through the theatre and seeing it for herself, she found herself intrigued. The majesty of the theatre was still breath taking, and it certainly would only need the repairs to the stage and front rows of seats, with the refurbishing of other things. As she walked through the backstage area, however, she could not help but find herself overcome with a certain sort of mystery surrounding the Opera Populaire. It was as though the people who had lived and worked there previously were still living within the walls and props scattered about. The atmosphere of the backstage area had so much character and told so many stories of happiness and love, and yet not all it was of glorious performances on the stage, or exciting cast parties, or the thrill of the yearly masquerade. There was a slightly ominous feeling present as well…

She had heard the tales… heard tell of the grotesque Phantom that had killed many and that had caused the disaster of the chandelier all over some ballet dancer whom he had supposedly taught to sing. Constance found the stories all quite ludicrous, and imagined that they spawned from the overactive imaginations of bored crew workers and performers. Of course, she had yet to meet the people with the names that the previous managers had left, but she had heard enough from outsiders about it to find the mystery particularly interesting. Perhaps she would one day find enough peace to write about these particularly fantastical stories, because they would one day make a rather interesting piece of literature. Someone had to write them down, or they would be lost forever.

Even though she did not believe in this elusive Phantom, she was slightly worried that the contractors would show up to work at their appointed date in times. So it was a huge relief that the contractors she hired had shown up on the day they were to start, seemingly not the least bit worried about the stories of the Phantom either. At least she hoped that.

"Well, it looks like everything is under control here," came the voice of her brother.

Constance glanced up from the piece of paper she was reading, "I told you that you did not need to come."

"I know, but…" he sighed and looked at her.

"But now you are wishing you had more of a role in the restoration of this Opera," she smiled slightly, brushing a wisp of hair from her eyes.

Olivier laughed softly, "You know me too well."

"You have not changed much since I left France," she replied. "You always have to be in the middle of things."

"Tis my curse," he said.

Constance nodded, "And you should not worry, I am sure I will need your money."

He rolled his eyes, "I figured that much… well, I am off if you do not think you will need me anymore today."

"No, I believe I shall be fine," she replied. "Now, please go, you are annoying me."

Olivier shook his head in a mock dismay, and tipped his hat to her, walking out of the building. She chuckled lightly and glanced around the opulent foyer of the Opera, the window now uncovered and illuminating the room with such brilliance, it seemed to make each of the colors in the various marbles to light on fire. That inadvertently lightened her spirits and made her feel slightly alive for the first time in many months. Today was a good day. Finally, it seemed that she might be able to continue… but only time would tell.

She sighed and folded the paper up, walking toward the entrance to the theatre. Everyone still seemed to be working happily at their jobs, so she continued back to the managers' office to tackle the task of cleaning up the mess of papers and dust there. The least those managers could have done was clean their working space up a bit more, but then again, they were men. Stepping into the room, she reached over and turned the gaslight up so she could look about the room. It was a rather drab setting, even with the intricate desk and furniture set about the mahogany wood-covered room. She was sure that as the rest of the Opera Populaire, after the dust and the clutter straightened and removed, it would probably seem a great deal more inviting. And even if it did not, it would still suit her needs for the work she needed to do.

With a small puff, dust blew out from the chair behind the desk as she set herself into it. Adjusting her seat then, she scooted closer to the desk and began her perusal of the documents spread about. The pages were mainly of contracts and deals the previous managers made with certain contractors and performers during their short stay in the Opera Populaire, and also were of contract work release pages, dated after the supposed tragedy of the theatre. Nearly finished sorting them out, she lifted the last piece of paper from the desk, to find an envelope beneath it. It was an odd note, the envelope outlined in black, addressed to André and Firmin. Women used these strange envelopes often, and men sometimes, for periods of mourning after losing a close loved one. After all, she sent many recently, so she would know.

But who would have sent this to the managers?

Constance picked up the enveloped, and turned it over to find the red wax seal broken, but still in the prominent shape of skull. Her curiosity aroused, she could not resist the urge to extract the note within the envelope. So she did just that, and began reading it.

_Gentlemen, _

_I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. Christine Daaé has returned to you, and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of _Il Muto_, you will therefore cast Carlotta as the Pageboy, and put Miss Daaé in the role of Countess. The role which Miss Daaé plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the Pageboy is silent - which makes my casting, in a word, ideal. _

_I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur._

_I remain, Gentlemen, your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

Who was O.G?

Christine Daaé?

She could not make heads or tails of this inauspicious letter to the managers. Who sent this? O.G? There was only one thing she could think of that could remotely be linked to those initials, and since it was in the context of the Opera Populaire, she could only surmise it meant Opera Ghost. Who was playing such games with the people here to worry them like this? What was this person's fascination with this Daaé girl? Was this O.G. just some crazed admirer who had gone to such lengths to see her in the spot of Prima Donna, that he masqueraded about as "The Opera Ghost" to scare everyone into submission?

Oh, it was all just rubbish. There could be no such thing as a ghost, or a phantom… or whatever they liked to call the menagerie of odd happenings in the theatre, which probably had absolutely no connection at all. But one thing was unsettling to her. Why had André and Firmin not said anything about this to begin with? Constance rolled her eyes and knew she was jumping to conclusions that probably were not worth jumping to… there was no Opera Ghost. If he was a ghost, how could he pen this most foreboding letter?

She crumbled the paper up and tossed it into the rubbish bin, sitting back in her chair. Closing her eyes, she pushed away the thoughts of this mystery for now. She had many other, much more important things to worry about at the present time than this dreaded legend of the Opera Ghost. But as she sat there in the silence, she heard a fluttering of paper and opened her eyes in time to see and hear an envelope land with a soft plop on her desk. The heavy red wax seal, which had caused the sound of the paper falling on the desk, was stamped with the shape of a skull.

This was not happening.

Sure, she may have been one for mystery and intrigue, but not one with obviously sinister overtones. Not one involving a ghost. Hoping to spot someone who may have dropped this letter, she glanced up toward the rafters. But she saw no one. Not even a flash of quick movement. Someone had to be up there… there was no other explanation. With slightly shaking hands, she reached over and picked the envelope up from the desk, splitting the seal. Taking a deep breath, she reached her fingers into the envelope and extracted a familiar looking piece of stationery like the one she had just thrown away, but this one was addressed to her.

_Dear Madame Manager,_

_I extend my fondest welcome to my Opera House, Connie, and would also like to give you and your brother my sincerest gratitude for so graciously taking over management of the Opera Populaire. It was neglected for far too long in the hands of those who were here before you. The previous managers were, how should one say, so imbecilic that they were unable to see the beauty of the friendly advice I extended their way. I hope that you will be more useful to me when abiding to my wishes, and that your touch here, as well, will heal the woes in these still fairly new walls._

_Now that formalities are out of the way, I would like to draw your attention to a few areas which should concern you. My monthly salary is 20,000 francs, and when the theatre reopens, I expect Box Five to be kept open for my usage at all following operas. As for the reconstruction of the Opera Populaire… I have the original plans to the building of this magnificent structure should you require them. And finally, for actors and crew… for now I ask that that Madame Giry, the ballet mistress, be reinstated into her position. You may do as you see fit with her daughter, she is not the best ballerina or chorus girl, but they usually come together. Monsieur Reyer would be a good choice for conductor. When the subject of actors arises I will send more instructions, but will not worry much for now. After all, we see eye to eye on the problems caused by Carlotta… your other casting should not be too horrible, especially if you have Reyer helping._

_You may think this demanding, dear Madame, but I assure you that it is for the best interest of the Opera Populaire, of which I have called home for more than half of my life. I do truly hope that this is the beginning of a fruitful partnership and rebirth of this palace._

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

She dropped the paper on the desk, and found that she was more enraged than she was scared of the obvious overtones of the letter. How dare this man… this creature… demand these things? Demand them and threaten her if he was not given them? And a salary for what? Harassing the people who worked in the theatre? Oh, he needed to be taught a lesson. How did he know the pet name her brother and husband had always called her? Or that she was Madame and not Mademoiselle?

Was it a he?

A she?

It?

Could she even respond to a letter when she had no idea where she should take it or leave it? But one thing was certain, _it_ was a living thing, because not in all the stories of ghouls and goblins she had heard about in her relatively short life did they say a ghost could write or even hold a pen.

She rummaged through the desk and found a piece of paper and an envelope. Picking the nib pen up from the desk, she placed it to paper, and took a small breath before composing her response.

------------

_To the Infamous O.G._

_I have heard of your supposed presence in this opera house, Monsieur, but I do not deem it at all acceptable. What gives you the right to demand these things you seek? It is my Opera House, good Monsieur, not yours. If you live in it, you may continue to do so, but without the intention of ruining my brother and me, like you did André and Firmin, or going about tormenting others. And if you do try to destroy us in any manner, conceivable or inconceivable, I will see to it that you are not only found, but also have the highest level of justice served upon you. _

_However, I do not wish to start this relationship off in this direction. If you wish your advice heeded in any small degree, I suggest a meeting where I can see you face to face. I do not take orders from strangers, least of all strangers who hide in the bowels of this theatre and have a supposed history of murder and torment. I must ask that you continue correspondence with me in person. I would also ask how you know my name and of my position on La Carlotta, but I imagine you would not tell me even if I asked, because that gives you an aura of mysteriousness that has allowed you to make people believe you are a Phantom._

_If we should have a meeting, I will then see if you are an asset to the Opera Populaire or not, which will, in turn, determine if I should listen to your advice and give you a salary for you consultations. As for Madame Giry, she has already been contacted about the position, as has Monsieur Reyer for our chorus director. Now, all powerful Phantom, who has haunted too many people for too long, I must bid you farewell and hope that you heed _my_ wishes._

_Your undaunted manager,_

_Constance, Marchioness Whitehall of Montrose_

He laughed at her letter, and set it down in front of him to read over again. He did not know if he should be angry at the insolence of the tone in which she wrote this litter, or if he should be impressed by her ability not to be deceived by his equally threatening tone. Truly, he had never met a woman who could so stand up to someone like him. And aMarchioness, no less!

Of course, there was no one else like him, but most of the time women or girls ran from the thought that there was a ghostly entity inhabiting the same place they lived and worked. Others were also easily frightened by his threats and his mystery, but this Constance, Marchioness Whitehall of Montrose, did not seem the least bit impressed the bit of ultimatum waving he had done in his letter. She was definitely not one to go with the grain of things, fearing confrontation.

Though she was not impressed with him, he was impressed with her ability to put him in his place, even if that only lasted for a fleeting few seconds. He had never met a woman before who could do that to him, besides, perhaps, Giry. And yet, he had no idea how to handle such a head-strong woman. He had not the practice needed to accomplish such things.

But he would give her this meeting she so needed, and he would see how she reacted with him in person. Would she be scared of his masked face, and what would be beneath it? Would she then become nervous? There was only one way to find out.


	4. Of Victorian Marriage

**_A/N: In the book, Raoul has an older brother, and two older sisters. The sisters are in this story (you'll see what I mean later on, ;-).), and I am taking artistic license and adding the Comte Philippe de Chagny in, even though an odd fate befalls him in the book. Since they never mentioned family of Raoul's in the play, and the play is basically what I am basing this little figment off of, I thought it would be a nice addition. Philippe is to play an important role in the future… devilish horns go on head_**

**_Also, please note that I wrote Mandy the O, author of the wonderful story _An Eternity of This_ before I published my story. I was rolling this idea around in my head, and had the first three chapters planned out when I stumbled across her lovely piece of fiction. I was worried that some might see it that I was copying her ideas (and some have alluded to that fact now that Chp. 3 is up), so I made sure she knew I was not before posting. This beginning part with the notes (much like Mandy's fic) seems to me to be the most effective way for Erik to get his point across, when trying to maintain his air of sinister and mysterious doings. To me, that was just one of his many ways for making people believe he was an 'undeterminable entity' and not necessarily a flesh-and-bones man. _**

**_As of now, my story will veer off into previously untouched territory (I think it's untouched anyway), as each of my characters have their own, different demons to conquer and also as I focus on my take of Erik post-Christine. But what interests me the most, and what you will see me writing about more often, is the role of 'society' in all of this. Let's just say Victorian etiquette and everything having to do with nobility astounds me, and I find it interesting to try to write within these constraints, and pointing out what would be seen as inherently bad for any person of high society to do (ie elicit 'affairs' with strange mask and cravat-clad men). Of course that won't happen for a long time… so sit back, relax and enjoy._**

**_And if you haven't encountered Mandy the O's story yet, I demand you sit down to read it when you have a chance. There will be a test. She is truly a gifted author. Actually, no, I ask politely that you give it a gander, the Phantom demands it. Expect a threatening note in your mailbox soon enough if you do not comply. ;-)_**

**_Now that was entirely longer than I intended, I would love to extend my deepest thanks to the lovely reviewers of this story. This swift, though short, update is for you, especially 'Passing Stranger', who finally inspired me enough to begin to delve into my supporting characters' roles that I have been putting off for the past few chapters._**

Chapter 4- Of Victorian Marriage

Constance sat at the dinner table that night in silence, thinking about her day and wondering about this Phantom. She left the note upon her desk when she went home that afternoon, hoping that he would come by to spy or at least look about at the changes she had made to the room. He seemed like the type that would follow a person about, just to look and critique the actions or things they had done. Of course, she only had those two rather obnoxious letters from the Phantom to guess this about his character, but by the way he wrote of exactly what he wanted, it was clear that if something was not done to his satisfactory appraisal, he would most definitely speak out about it. It seemed he only wanted the best.

Nonetheless, though, she was worried about how he would receive her letter. She had written it in a time of anger over his own letter, and knew some of her wording could have been a bit more polite, but it was done and she would have to live with the outcome of it soon enough. Now all she had to wait for was to arrive at the Opera the following Monday, praying that she would not find it ransacked because of the Phantom's displeasure. Would he be amenable to her request for a meeting?

However, what captivated her about this new development was that all the stories she had pooh-poohed about this _Phantom _were actually true. There was a man who lived in the Opera House. He had killed. He was the one that caused the fire disaster. What had this creature… man… lived through that had condemned him to living in that Opera and finding his only joy in scaring people? She so wanted to know, if only for her own insatiable curiosity.

"Constance…" came the soft, prodding call from across the table.

She jolted out of her reverie, not realizing that she was so lost in thought. "I am sorry, Joséphine…"

"It's quite alright," the blonde smiled and sighed, quickly readjusting herself uncomfortably in her seat. "I only wanted to know how your first day went at the Opera."

Constance smiled slightly, masking her true feelings of her first day as they were so mixed with good and odd happenings. "It went smoothly. I do not know what else there is to say… I suppose when the operas start forming again, it will be much more interesting. Right now, it is all sorting out documents and fixing all the damage of the theatre."

Joséphine nodded, sipping her dark wine from an intricate glass goblet. Olivier interrupted then, "So you did need me there for a little more excitement."

"You do not cause excitement, dear brother. Perhaps absolute pandemonium, but not excitement," she replied. "Your mind moves in too many directions at once and always confuses everyone, creating such chaos."

Olivier grunted slightly, and shook his head. Joséphine laughed lightly, as a polite lady would, "She is right, you know."

"Mother always said that no one could understand me but myself," Olivier remarked. "I thought I had gotten better."

"There is no cure for your ailments, Olivier," Constance chuckled.

The elder brother scoffed, "This is why I do not like having two opinionated women in this house. Both of you form quite an alliance against me."

"You have Alexandre," Joséphine mentioned nonchalantly, and without any degree of emotion on her face, though it was quite obvious she meant it jokingly.

Constance laughed at Olivier's expression, thoroughly happy that Joséphine was finally beginning to understand the outspoken relationship Constance shared with her brother. Joséphine came from a French family of great wealth and great power, and one that placed their entire wellbeing on acting in perfect noble etiquette at all times. If there was one thing that still annoyed Constance about her sister in law, it was this one fact. Joséphine still held to her principles of a woman's etiquette, and acted, well, downright spineless sometimes, when she was not complaining about the way certain people of lesser society acted. She had, for a time, looked down upon the way Olivier and Constance acted, finding it quite repulsive how they could behave in such a way, like the lower classes, toward each other.

But what Joséphine had not realized, upon marrying into the family, was that the Duchy de Louvois was far from a societal 'normal' in any regard.

Of course the Duchy de Louvois held the highest possible noble position in France, and that limited their freedom quite a bit. They put on a face each time they went out and were forced to interact with the world; they would never do anything to shame the good, upstanding family name… not purposefully at least. However, at home, within the confines of their own space, they were very different from many other families. Their father, a quite persnickety Duc in his old age, had always made sure that both Olivier and Constance were educated in the same manners, and in the same things (except, perhaps, fencing). He was quite a radical thinker for his time, and Constance could have only ever attributed that to the love and joy her fiery, outspoken Spanish mother brought to the family. If the fact that her mother was Spanish was not odd enough, there was such love between their mother and father, that it caused some eyebrows to be raised, just as it had in England between her and William. But what their father did not accomplish, their mother made sure to, infusing her children with the ability to think for themselves and do what they thought right, not what others thought right.

And Joséphine found herself utterly out of place in the household, having been taught the _proper_ way of things. Slowly, though, she warmed up to the realization that being proper all the time was just plain exhausting. She still acted quite girlish and prudish sometimes, but she was much better about it now. And God forbid she should let loose on you in an argument. It would seem all those years of pent up anger over things that the proper lady could not normally show were unleashed in arguments, and she sometimes even gave Olivier and Constance a run for their money.

Of course, these observations of Joséphine's changes were only made since Constance's return to Paris, as shortly after Olivier's wedding, she left for England with William. Constance did not yet feel that Joséphine was quite a woman-in-arms, but they were certainly becoming closer as the months passed.

"Alexandre does not count," Olivier replied after some time, and sniffled mockingly. "I can quite easily persuade him on any issue if I wish. No… the only way to be rid of this alliance is to divorce you, or marry Constance off again."

The room became deathly silent when Olivier and Joséphine both glanced at each other, and realized what he had said. Constance's thoughts went directly to William then, though they had always been there waiting to be brought up from the darker recesses of her mind since the dawning of the new day. She sighed heavily and smiled tenderly, "Do not walk on eggshells around me, please. I will always miss William, and there will be no substitute for him. No amount of waiting will change that, but I must move on. Quite frankly, I am weary of always being in such spirits and having you two act in such a way around me."

Olivier sighed as well, "You know to tell us if we ever step over the barrier of comfort?"

"When have I ever not voiced my opinions?" she questioned with a small laugh.

Joséphine smiled, "I am happy for you, Constance. I know if I were to lose Olivier, I would never recover as you have."

"I am not recovered, only functioning with a higher degree of acceptance," she replied.

"That is still better than I think I would manage," the blonde said.

"The heart is a funny thing, dear Joséphine," Constance said with another sigh and glanced around. "Where is Alexandre anyway?"

Joséphine laughed, "He is helping Danielle pack for the trip to the country."

"Trip?" Constance questioned.

"We did not ask, because we did not think you would be up to traveling, but you are welcome to come with us. We made sure they accounted for an extra guest," Joséphine said. "It would be great fun. The men are to go on a hunting trip, and we ladies will take tea and gossip."

Neither of those things were her idea of a weekend well-spent, but she did fancy the idea of going out to the country again and smelling the fresh air. Constance smiled, "And who would be hosting this event?"

"The Comte de Chagny," Olivier added.

"Your brother, Joséphine?" Constance questioned. She knew exactly who the Comte was, Joséphine's unmarried forty-three year old brother… she just could not think of anything else even remotely intelligent to reply with. Well, she could have asked how he was, but that would have connotations she did not wish to utter.

Joséphine laughed, "That would be him. We have not seen him in a year or so. Not after my younger brother's wedding."

"The Vicomte is wed, not necessarily to Philippe's liking, but he has realized that his younger brother found love," Olivier added.

"Who is the lady's name?" Constance asked.

Joséphine shifted uneasily in her chair and looked at Constance for a long, silent moment before saying, "You shall meet her at the country estate. My sister, Thérèse and her husband the Monsieur Gascogne will also be there."

For an instant, Constance thought to further prod Joséphine on the topic of her younger brother's wife, but decided that since it was such a hard thing to admit in the open air, she should not continue. She would wait until she met this mysterious wife of the Vicomte's. Perhaps then, the wife would be obliging enough to give her a name to call her by.

Now, however, she began to wonder if this mentioning of the country getaway over the weekend was entirely spontaneous, or if it had been planned this way, to some how trick her into going because they thought it would be good for her. There was no doubt the fact that the Comte was as yet unwed was only _one _of the probable reasons for trying to get her to go on this trip. Their past together would automatically bring her and the Comte together in conversation, and from the sound of it, they would be the only unwed people there, automatically pinning them together for longer periods of time as she would no doubt not be left unattended. After all, the de Chagnys always placed so much importance on their etiquette.

Olivier then spoke with a sigh, "We would enjoy your company, and we plan to return Monday, so you will be able to go to the Opera."

"I will go," Constance replied. "Though I can see where father's evil plan from long ago can once again be carried out."

Joséphine chuckled lightly, "I do not think you need to worry about that, Constance. My brother confirmed his bachelorhood status after the marriage talks for your hand between him and your father ended. No… now he devotes his time to his horses and various other animals when he is not occupied with business."

Olivier smiled, "And I thank you for being so against the marriage, Connie, so Father could secure our ties to the de Chagnys another way."

"I am glad to be of service, Olivier," she said wryly.

"Of course," her brother said finally and sat back in his seat, finally finished with his meal. A servant came in then to clear away the dishes. They each stood from their seats, and retired each to do something else. Constance went to her room to begin preparing for the journey to the countryside, soon joined by Danielle, the young servant girl that her brother employed, whom had finally finished with readying Alexandre's things. Since she had so few clothes that were still in style, and in other colors than black and grey, it was easy for her to decide on the wardrobe for the weekend.

Later, having finished packing, she planned to take a book to the parlor, but once she arrived at the entrance to the room, she heard the low talking coming from inside. It was obviously not the most pleasant conversation, from the tones in which each of the voices spoke in the discussion. Hearing her name mentioned, Constance stepped back away from the door and rested against the wall to listen.

"We should have just told her, Olivier," Joséphine said lowly. "I should have just told her about the Opera."

"Why? Make her worry about something she needs not worry about?" Olivier questioned. "Firmin assured me there was nothing to worry about."

"I do not trust that Firmin," the woman replied.

Constance now knew hat they must have been talking about the Opera Populaire. What were they talking about exactly, though? Perhaps the Phantom?

Her brother sighed, "Joséphine, my dear, that _thing_ is no longer there. That is why I spent so much time there today, checking to make sure there were no incidences. She has nothing to watch out for; she will be safe. But she does deserve to know about Christine and Raoul."

Christine? Christine Daaé? It could only mean that this Christine was connected to some_thing_ in the Opera Populaire and the Vicomte. And she could only surmise that that thing was the mysterious Phantom.

"Should I let Christine explain it, or shall I?" Joséphine asked.

"Would Christine even be able to?" Olivier questioned.

"No, probably not without a degree of difficulty."

Olivier cleared his throat, and the sound of him walking across the room found her ears, "If Constance asks, then we tell her. Some questions will eventually come up about Christine and her involvement with the Opera, and also the Comte's and Vicomte's."

Constance backed away from the wall, and hung her head, giving it a light shake. Were they just keeping these obviously horrible stories away from her because they thought her incapable of handling it with the past still resting uncomfortably on her shoulders and in her heart? If it did anything, it created more intriguing mystery, and perhaps a way to figure out the story behind the Phantom even before she heard back from him in accordance to her letter. And while she did not appreciate them keeping these secrets from her, sheltering her from the past happenings of the Opera House that she had no idea of because of her removal to England, Constance liked the idea of unraveling the mystery by herself. At least that also occupied her mind from sinking deeper into grief, if that was at all possible.


	5. The Comte

_A/N: There is really not much more to say as I continue on with the story, just remember that as far as the Phantom goes, Mr. Butler will most definitely be the actor I use for a base vision as I mold Leroux!Erik, Webber!Erik, and Butler!Erik into one being. If you would like ideas as to who I would picture the others as, please visit my author's page and look in the bio for links. As for others (ie Christine, Raoul) please refer to movie visages. Château d'Esclimont is a real place, and is designed like Versailles. Sorry about the absence of Erik in the next few chapters… after these plot building chapters, you will be inundated with Erik, I promise. I warn you know that I make Christine Sueish in this, but in all forms of Phantom, I picture her to be the biggest Mary Sue in the world. (Phans, please don't flog me) It just goes to show that Sues can be written well._

_Thank you reviewers! Your comments are always appreciated._

_Words to know: _

_Oncle- uncle_

Chapter 5- The Comte

"Alexandre, please sit still!"

Constance turned her head to the side, gazing out at the lush, green scenery as it passed by their carriage windows, trying to conceal her smile over the current situation. Since early that morning at the train station, Alexandre had been running about, higher than any kite in any sky bright blue sky. The child was so excited to see his uncles and aunts again, and meet his cousins for the first time. He was, fortunately, subdued for a short three hours, the train ride from Paris giving him quite a bit of an upset stomach, but as soon as their trip ended just outside of St. Symphorien-le-chateau, and he was within the small confines of the carriage, he sprang to life. More life than she had ever really seen him, as he fidgeted in his seat and asked a vast array of menial questions about nothing in particular. Joséphine had been so vexed by those questions that she almost called to the coach driver stop so that she could place him in the carriage behind them with his nanny. Olivier, in his usual fashion, stayed out of it and tried not to laugh, though it was in the greatest amount of vain as his wife was sending him dirty looks.

"Papa!" Alexandre shouted, pointing out his window. "There it is!"

Constance glanced out the window he was looking through, and saw the gigantic, blue-roofed château come into view from the tall green trees. It was truly a breathtaking estate with the turrets and watch towers. Even having seen it many times before in her life, each time held a new wonder. Of course, many years had passed since she saw it last, but it was still one of the most stunning pieces of land in France, modeled after the Versailles. The carriage turned down a small pebble-strewn path along the large lake, up to the front of the great mansion. It was hard to see anything from this vantage point now, Joséphine's bonnet blocking her view of the window, but she did not really need to worry about what she could not see in front of the mansion. She knew that the Comte would be outside, with or without his other family members, to greet their arrival.

Soon the carriage lurched to a stop, and Constance was thankful that formalities could be spared in the company of family and out in the middle of the rural countryside. She knew that anyone from the Chagny line would still hold true to their propriety, as it was a rather habit forming thing, but they would still be slightly more lax about it out here in this quiet, pastoral setting. At least she hoped, since this was a vacation, and she received enough discourse on etiquette while in metropolitan Paris.

As quickly as the door was opened, Alexandre was running out and toward the front of the house. He shouted excitedly, "Oncle Philippe!"

There was then the smooth, tenor laugh of the Comte, and one she had known a long time ago. "Welcome, my dear nephew."

"I know how to tie a rope like how you showed me the last time," Alexandre proclaimed proudly, not wasting one moment in his uncle's presence.

"Well then, you'll just have to show that to me later," Philippe said with another small chuckle. "Right now, I think I should welcome your parents."

Olivier moved slowly off of the carriage, stretching his legs and moving stiffly. He stretched his back and then turned to the carriage, offering his hand to Joséphine, "I cannot sit like that for so long anymore."

"You are turning into an old curmudgeon," Joséphine replied.

"You are not far off, my sweet," Olivier shot back with a laugh and helped her out of the carriage. Constance saw the flash of stylish male couture from the side of the door where she imagined that Philippe had just appeared. And her suspicions were correct when she heard the happy talking between brother and sister outside of the coach. She had forgotten how pleasant his voice was when he spoke to a woman, always taking on a certain decorous tone when addressing them. Yes, he had always been one of the favorite gentlemen of the women of France, and she was sure elsewhere, but his dealings with women could not even compare to his much younger brother's series of exploits, according to Olivier.

Olivier, in the meanwhile, reached his hand back inside of the carriage, beckoning her to take it. She had not noticed it until Olivier cleared his throat agitatedly to get her attention… she was thinking too deeply about the Comte. With a soft chuckle of embarrassment at herself, she took his hand carefully, stepped out of the carriage and down onto the pebbled path. Deeply breathing in the fresh air, she looked up at the huge mansion before them. It was a palace all on it's own, and a very lucky acquisition of the de Chagny's not long after Philippe's birth (or so she had heard the whole tedious story from Philippe's father one night while their families shared dinner).

"Constance?!" came the nearly stunned, questioning voice from her side.

She turned to glance at him, letting a small smile cross her lips. Truly, she was glad to see an old friend, if they were not anything more than that before she found William. And she was also glad to note that despite his older years, he had aged like a fine wine, even with his harsh-lined forehead and slight coolness in his eyes of blue-grey.

"Constance," he said again, more tenderly and welcoming, a large smile spreading across his own face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes becoming quite evident. "I had wondered who the extra room was for."

"I was quite surprised by it all, as well," she replied. "My brother and his wife seem to like to keep secrets."

He chuckled and took two long strides to stand before her. As he passed, she could not help but notice the pleased, scheming looks on both Olivier's and Joséphine's faces; she knew that even though they had been thinking with the utmost care for her inviting her on this holiday to relieve her from her worries, they had always had a slightly ulterior motive- and that was to see if there was anything possible between her and the Comte. Philippe picked up her hand and bent over it, kissing the back of her fingers ever so lightly and then righting himself to look down at her. She had forgotten how tall he was.

"I was deeply saddened by the news of your husband, Constance," he said quietly. "I knew you loved him greatly."

"I did," she replied sadly, but she forced a smile to her lips, "but a few years have passed and I my heart is mending, and I am overjoyed to be here and to see you again, Monsieur le Comte."

Philippe grinned at her, "And you have absolutely no idea how happy I am to have you here. I thought I would be the only one present without someone on my arm."

"I am afraid you are without a lady to make blush on your arm, Philippe," she remarked. He gave her a quizzical look. She chuckled, "I fear that I already gave my card to the dashing Alexandre."

He raised a curious brow, and glanced back at the child who was now regaling a man she could not quite place, but held the obvious characteristics of a Chagny… handsome, impeccably dressed at the highest point of fashion, complete with sandy blonde hair and fair complexion. "I think even he will understand at his young age that a man must have his priorities, and his are certainly not women. I believe he will easily let me take your arm instead."

"You are cheekier than I recall, good Comte," she replied with another laugh.

"Your brother, on the other hand," he then said, and glanced back at Olivier and Joséphine with a sheepish smile, who were trying their best to hide their looks of delight that bringing them together was working so well.

Constance sighed disappointedly. She did not come on this holiday for being matched up with a man… it was the absolute last thing she desired at the moment, and she could only hope that they were not too pressing on the matter. Truthfully she would not mind in the future bringing the subject of marriage up if that was the only route left open to her, but he would only be a friend and nothing more even in that future setting (at least that was what she thought then). "I do not think he would mind in the least."

"You were not there when we were younger, Constance. He was so protective of you," Philippe replied. "But I am not doing my duties as your host. Shall I introduce you to the man you looked so strangely at just a moment ago?"

He offered his arm to her, and she took it politely, walking up the many steps to the huge wooden front doors. She could nearly hear Olivier and Joséphine talking merrily behind them, but she pushed that out of her mind. She was mistress of her fate right at the moment, and she knew that Olivier would not force her into anything she did not want, but would force her out of something she did want if he thought it inherently unsavory for her.

Philippe paused in front of the young man, who could not have been over twenty. There seemed to be a certain amount of age in his eyes, however, as though he had lived through something quite stressful that had taught him many things. While in the back of her mind she knew this was Raoul, she could not get over the fact that he had grown so much from his more impetuous days at the ripe old age of thirteen, running away from his governess to rescue a scarf from the sea. The Comte smiled proudly, "Constance, my brother Raoul. And, I am sure you recall Constance de Louvois from so long ago."

The young Chagny smiled and nodded his head politely, "How could I forget, Philippe? I was jealous of you."

Constance chuckled lightly, "Yes, he is a Chagny."

"Through and through," Philippe replied.

She smiled brightly and glanced back at Raoul, "I hear good news that the Vicomte is recently wed?"

Raoul then nodded, a look of happiness, mixed with a bit of painful memory in his clear blue eyes. "You have heard correct, Madame. She would be here to greet you, but she is, unfortunately, detained in the nursery with our daughter."

"You have been busy in the year since your marriage," she replied, without thinking, and noticed the look of shock on Raoul's face followed by a slight blush.

The Comte only laughed from beside her, "Raoul, you forget that Olivier and his sister both do not disguise their wording so it becomes such a riddle you cannot figure it out. But, yes, Constance, he has been busy. And as you said, he is a Chagny."

Constance nodded her head, glancing at Philippe. She truly had not remembered him being this lax in his distribution of off-color remarks. She turned back to look at Raoul then, but she noticed the movement coming down the huge staircase from inside the equally large receiving hall. Soon the movement metastasized into a beautiful young woman, curly, rich brown hair pinned up intricately on her head with porcelain skin and dressed immaculately in a rather cheery, dress of powder blue. It was obvious her body was still recovering from the shock of birthing, but her figure was close to it's normal shape again. She was the picture of beauty as she seemed to float down the steps and across the marbled front entrance to the door. Her posture was faultless, and Constance instantly pegged her as a performer of some sort, and with the economy for movement in which she moved, Constance guessed her to be a dancer.

Well, she could certainly see why Philippe was not thrilled when the marriage happened between her and Raoul if she was a dancer.

Raoul turned to glance at the approaching person, having heard the soft click of the woman's low heels on the ground. A rather large smile lit his face, and he placed his hand on the woman's waist, pulling her into the doorway. Constance smiled at her, and the woman ran her rather innocent doe eyes over her face before smiling. It was almost as though she were trying to discern if her visitor was friend or foe just by the look of her face. While that put Constance off quite a bit, she decided to think the best of this woman for now.

The Vicomte smiled, "May I present to you, Marchioness, my wife, Christine."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame la Vicomtess," Constance said.

Then the woman's face ignited into a bright smile (it was truly heart rendering, even for her), and she said in a soft, smooth voice that had obviously been a product of years of voice training, "The pleasure is all mine, Marchioness. Shall I call you Marchioness?"

"No, please do not!" Constance exclaimed emphatically. "Constance will do."

Christine nodded, "Then Constance it is."

The sound of the thunderous pounding of small feet on the floor interrupted the conversation then, and Alexandre went running by with two other boys with blonde hair, slightly older than himself. Philippe answered her question for her, without needed her to actually speak the words. "Those would be my sister, Thérèse's, twins. She and her husband are still settling in from their trip here."

Constance nodded and smiled, "I see."

"Which I should probably allow all of you Parisians to do now," Philippe added. "And once you are settled, we will meet for a brunch before we men head out hunting."

With that, they were shown about to their rooms, but only after the happy welcoming of Joséphine and Olivier by Raoul and Christine.

* * *

It had been a pleasant meal, everyone speaking politely and meshing well despite being apart from each other for so long. The food was delicious, the company good. It seemed that nothing would overshadow this short holiday to the countryside… that was, of course, up until the moment of Olivier's newest business venture was mentioned. Philippe had taken a sip from his cup of tea, and looked down the table at Olivier, in his usually haughty way. Constance knew almost instantly that conversation would now turn to business and the world, in a sort of way to excuse the women from the table so the men could go off for their short afternoon hunting trip. 

"So, Olivier, the last I heard, you had a large property acquisition in the works," Philippe said.

Constance glanced at Olivier, wondering what he would say, especially after what he and Joséphine had been talking about the evening before in the parlor of Christine and the Opera Populaire. As she suspected, he shifted uneasily in his seat, and sighed, "We should not talk about business here at the table, Philippe. It would not concern the ladies here that much. Shall we wait till later?"

Philippe raised a questioning brow and guffawed at Olivier, "Since when does Olivier de Louvois hold so strictly to his manners? Come, tell us what you are working on."

Olivier exchanged quick, reluctant glances with Joséphine then, before looking back at Philippe. Constance paused and waited for the truth, and to see the reactions on their faces, to try to gain some knowledge as to what could have possibly happened to Christine at the Opera. Her brother sighed, knowing it was inevitable, "The Duchy de Louvois acquired a rather lucrative piece of property in the center of Paris…"

"Do not stall, Olivier," Philippe warned, slowly taking on an austere presence, obviously angry that Olivier was trying to side step the truth so blatantly. Both her brother and Philippe had known each other, and been very good friends for most of their lives. To do something like this was considered a large slight on Olivier's part when they had relied on each other for so long for sound business and real life advice. Constance glanced around at the table of people, now all looking expectantly at her brother. For an instant she felt bad for Olivier having such scrutiny on him, but she realized he deserved it if he intended to keep the Opera Populaire quiet when it supposedly held such a sour note for these people.

"I purchased the Opera Populaire from Messieurs André and Firmin," Olivier said, taking a shallow breath and holding it, waiting for some reaction to pass through the room. As the comment registered in everyone's respective minds, Constance glanced about, noting that the greatest looks of shock, and (somewhat) of anger, were on the faces of Raoul and Philippe. Christine held an expression as well, but it was one of regret and memory of a time past that was clearly painful for her to remember. Thérèse and her husband only remained quiet and glanced quickly between their host and Olivier, trying to decide if they should make a quick escape or try to smother an argument before it began.

Philippe, no longer in the cheerful disposition of a host, fell fully into an angered state. "The Opera, you say?"

She wondered then if there was supposedly some unspoken agreement between them that neither of the families would ever take part in the Opera again, after the tragedy that had occurred a few years ago. But this, she still did not understand. What had happened with Christine, that clearly involved the Chagny's?

"Will you run it as Patron, or as manager?" the Comte then asked.

Olivier glanced at the table, then back between the Comte and Vicomte, "I shall take part in it as a Patron."

"Then who is to be your manager?" Philippe questioned, narrowing his eyes. "Surely no one would want the task after all that has happened there."

Rather than let Olivier continue, she decided to answer for her brother, "He asked me to coordinate it now that I am back in France without a household to run."

All eyes shifted to her then, and she did not know how she should take the expressions now on her. Philippe's eyes softened as he gazed upon her, almost as though he were sorry that she was placed in such a position, and worried for her wellbeing. He said, while still looking at her, "Your brother did not speak to you about the Chagny's involvement in the disaster, did he?"

"No, he did not," Constance said. What could have possibly happened that caused such a disruption as this?

Philippe stood from his chair and let out a low sigh, glancing about the room. "Gentlemen, may I please see you in the parlor?"

Without any other words, all the men at the table stood and prepared to leave, though Thérèse's husband seemed to have no claim in the discussion that was obviously about to ensue. As the men left the room, Joséphine showed her discomfort by looking down at the table and shaking her head. Silence passed between all of them, until Constance moved her eyes over to Christine whom had become considerably distant in the past few moments.

"I am sorry Christine," Joséphine said quietly.

Christine sighed, "Please do not say that. That is over with now… it was over with nearly two years ago. All of it is only shocking that the Opera is suddenly thrust into the family again."

"And Constance, I am equally as sorry for not having Olivier tell you the entire story," Joséphine added.

"I still do not know what happened to cause a reaction like this. I am completely lost," Constance mentioned and glanced at her sister in law, from the corner of her eyes. Of course, she was not totally lost. She heard the stories from the people she had hired to work in the theatre, and also from her short correspondence with the Opera Ghost himself.

But they interrupted by an angry exclamation from the parlor. Raoul said, "You cannot let her stay there… not with that _thing_ there!"

"Calm down, Raoul," Olivier said quietly, though his voice was still audible in the dining room. "There is no evidence that what haunted you and Christine is still there."

"Olivier… still… I cannot believe you placed Constance in that possible danger," Philippe said.

"That thing is not there… you may come to Paris to see for yourself," Olivier suggested.

"I trust you," Philippe said. "I only worry about Constance."

Olivier chuckled, "You are not the only one who worries for her, Philippe, do not forget that."

"I will not," said the Comte. "Come, let us leave for the hunt. We will discuss this some more where female ears cannot hear."

Constance rolled her eyes and sighed. Naturally they would leave like that, because they (the women) could not hear, or possibly understand the sordid details of the continuing discussion. She glance back at the women around her, and began to say something, but a piercing scream from the next level of the house alerted them to the fact that Christine's daughter was now awake and needing her mother.


	6. A Strange Affair

_**A/N: If you did not catch the last chapter before it was buried with the other updates, please make sure you read it, because you'll be lost if you don't. About the end of this chapter- I am not saying that Constance has taken place of Gaston Leroux as the writer of the original book, but she does write down notes that would later help her, and in a fictional world, help Gaston Leroux write his masterpiece. **_

_**N.G.- about Messieurs, that is the correct form, I am told, when speaking of two or more Monsieur(s) together. But a huge thanks for your review. I love it, as always. And here is the quick update you hoped for. **_

Chapter 6- A Strange Affair

The rest of the day passed quietly… almost too quietly for her tastes.

While the men were away, until late in the evening, she was left with the women who dared not talk about what had passed earlier in the day. Joséphine and her sister seemed to be trying their best to skirt around the issues, obviously worried about how Christine would react with further talk about this Opera business. She was angry with Joséphine, that she would revert to her old meek ways, trying to keep any greater dissonance from occurring between everyone. Constance thought, for a moment, that perhaps Joséphine was doing the right thing by not continuing to speak of the issue, or even speaking privately with her about it, but after a while, her unquenchable need to be nosy and know everyone's business took over. And she rationalized this intrusiveness with the fact that she was running the Opera now, and needed to know anything that had happened before her. It would only help her in the end.

So she devised that the only way she would find out, without the men being able to speak with her that day, was to seek Christine out while she was alone. That time so happened after the men returned from their hunt and were busy cleaning themselves up, and the three wives were preparing their children for bed. Constance walked in the direction of the nursery that she had seen earlier on her tour about the mansion toward her own room. She paused in the doorway, looking into the room and finding Christine sitting in a wooden rocking chair with a bundle of soft pink blankets surrounding the babe. The sound of a clear, melodious song drifted toward her then, and she realized Christine was singing to the child… singing quite well, actually, even in the soft register.

Constance did not want to interrupt the moment between mother and daughter, but Christine held a note out and quieted down, shifting in the chair slightly to look back at her. She smiled slightly, "Please, Constance, come in."

She entered the room and walked toward Christine, and stood beside the chair, looking down at the pink-cheeked babe, this being the first time she was actually able to see the child. The child gurgled and smiled a toothless grin, her large blue eyes alive with a happy twinkle. The soft, light-colored fuzz on her round head was precious… her cherub cheeks, pinchable. She bemoaned then, with a heavy sigh, looking down at the perfect creation resting in Christine's arms. Oh how she had wanted her own children, especially with William, but now it seemed that hope was fading away from her.

"You have not spoken of her name yet," Constance said, trying to stop thinking about herself for one moment.

"Marguerite," Christine replied with a soft smile, moving her eyes back down to her child.

"A perfect name for such a beautiful child," she said.

Christine laughed lightly, "I think Philippe said the same thing when he first saw her… though I could tell he was disappointed that it wasn't a boy. As of yet, there is no one to carry on the Chagny name."

"Did you chose the name or did your husband?" Constance questioned.

"We came to it together," Christine said. "I do not know if you know the story… Philippe may have told you… but when we were very young, I lost a scarf in the sea and Raoul, who was there-."

"Saved your scarf. Yes, I heard about it," Constance nodded.

"We live in Brittany, near Brest now, where he grew up, so we often visit the beach. Her name only seemed obvious to us… a beautiful pearl," the young mother smiled again and let out a soft sigh, silence overtaking the room except for the crackle of the fire in the fireplace. Christine stood up and readjusted the babe in her arms, "Would you care to hold her?"

"I couldn't refuse that," she said, holding her arms out. Christine placed the bundle in her arms, giving her a pleasant smile. Constance adjusted the child, holding her closely to her chest and cooing lightly down at her.

The Vicomtess sighed again, and went to a nearby window, gazing out into the black of night with a faraway look in her eyes. She said quietly, "I suppose you came by to speak with me about the Opera."

"I can be quite transparent sometimes," she admitted, snuggling the child more closely.

"What would you like to know?" Christine questioned.

"You need not talk about it if you do not wish. The way everyone acts, I would imagine it is painful for you… whatever happened," Constance said, hoping that despite her gracious words, and not pestering Christine for information, would yield more information than if she asked outright.

Christine cleared her throat and turned to her, "It is not as painful as they seem to think that it is. Raoul especially shelters me too much now."

"Then tell me why Philippe and your husband act in such a way when the Opera is brought up in conversation," Constance said.

The young Victomess took a deep breath and started simply, "The Chagny family took over as the Patrons of the Opera Populaire when Andr­­é and Firmin bought it. That is how Raoul and I once again met. I was a ballet dancer from the time I was seven and my father died. Madame Giry, the ballet mistress, took me under her wing and taught me as best as she could. Over time I got better, but then strange things started to happen. I heard a voice claiming to be my Angel of Music, that my father had always promised to send me when he was in Heaven. I was very young then, and naïve, and I believed the voice… I let it talk to me from wherever it came from… I let it teach me how to sing."

"On the night of my first performance, taking over for La Carlotta when she left, angry with another mysterious happening at the Opera, Raoul found me. My Angel of Music, also came to me, for the first time in the form of a man… through my mirror." Christine stopped then and shuddered slightly. "My Angel came to me in the visage of a man dressed in a dark cape and a white mask covering the right side of his face. I was so in awe over it, I did not think twice about the fact that I had gone through the mirror… or more accurately, went through the passage that the two-sided mirror hid. He took me… he did something to my mind, making me see nothing but what he wanted me to see. He was magical, my Angel of Music."

"He led me deep beneath the Opera, down the seven basements to the lake beneath the building. There he showed me his home… were he lived in dark and cold. He sang to me, he taught me… and he told me exactly what he had plans for. He had a mannequin there, with a wedding dress and veil on it, with the head molded into my face. The characteristics made it look as though I was staring straight back at myself," Christine said. "Oh, it was so horrible. I fainted, and the next morning, or so I presume it was, I woke to a maniacal little monkey clapping his cymbals together as the barrel organ beneath it played in discord to the organ in the background. I realized it had been no dream… that it had all been real and that some masked man had come and taken me away from my room."

Christine paused for a little while, letting silence hang between them a bit more, before continuing, "I grew curious and went to him, pulling his mask off to see what he was hiding. Oh, to my utter horror, I found not a human face beneath the mask, but a deformity like I had never seen before. I cannot explain it you… beyond that fact that it was grotesque. He went off cursing me, saying that I could never leave him and that hate could turn to love. I was so scared at the anger he acted in, a barely heard that. But soon it all became clear to me."

"This man was the Phantom or Opera Ghost," Christine said. "I realized that soon enough when he demanded I be placed in _Il Muto_ as the lead. It did not happen, and he killed one of the stage hands the night of the opening performance. That was the night I told Raoul about the Angel of Music and that he was the one who took me after my first performance. We realized our love for each other that night, if we had not done so before… but there was something there. We both knew it. We felt it there, but we could see nothing. Now that I know what came to pass, I can say that it was the Phantom there, listening to us. He had wanted my love so badly…"

Constance stayed glued to the story Christine was telling. This would have made quite the story and could make some author famous someday if they ever wrote it down and tried to sell it. It was all just so fantastical enough it could be true. After all, truth was often more peculiar than falsehoods. "Then what happened?"

"The Phantom showed up at the New Year's masquerade, wearing all red and a Death's Head. I knew it was him, but I still found myself mesmerized," Christine said. "He had instructions about an Opera he had written in which I was to be cast as the lead. I didn't want to do it… I knew something would happen, so I went to my father's grave, trying to find some peace in the whole matter, only to be interrupted by the Phantom who again, somehow, entranced me into believing he was my Angel of Music. Raoul arrived just in time, and there was a duel… Raoul almost killed him, but my pity for the creature was too strong, and I held Raoul off from delivering the final blow. We returned to the Opera and heard nothing from him until opening night. He slipped into the character opposite me, for the final song, and I knew it was him. Piangi had a nice voice, but the Angel of Music's voice was much purer. The managers and Raoul had made sure there was plenty of armed guards about, but they did not realize it was him until it was too late and I unmasked him in front of everyone. He grabbed a hold of me and dragged be back down to his watery depths in hell, truly revealing to me the disturbed nature of this beast. He told me of his life… his unloving life. His mother casting him aside and out of her view, being shunned from everyone else because he was not normal."

"Oh it was horrible, Constance!" Christine sniffled then, the first show of true emotion since she first met the young woman. "He was so horrible… Raoul came to find me, and the Phantom caught him in his Punjab Lasso… or so he called it. He threatened to kill Raoul if I did not say I would marry him, or I would be let free, but only without Raoul as he would kill him. I did not know what I should do. It was such a decision… torn between my deep love for Raoul, and my pity and fear of the Phantom, my Angel of Music who had sculpted my voice from nothing."

"You obviously both got away…" Constance said then. "How did you manage?"

Christine shrugged her shoulders slightly, "I really do not know if God gave him a conscience for the last moments we were together, or if he just gave up. All I know is that I loved Raoul so much, I wanted to save him… so I agreed to stay with the disfigured man- disfigured inside and out- and kissed him as passionately as I could muster. He only let out a choking sob afterward, and yelled at us to leave him. To this day, I do not know how I feel about the Phantom, as even though he was deranged, he had only wanted beauty and love. He loved me… but I did not love him. I know this… and I often think about him… wonder if he is doing well. But Meg Giry and Madame Giry both tell me that after that night, he disappeared, never to return. Raoul has not allowed me to go back there yet, because he worries that the Phantom, if he was still there, could change his mind and start his stalking all over again."

There was then the soft clearing of someone's throat from the doorway. They both turned to find Raoul standing in the doorway, his hair still damp from his bathing. Christine hung her head, as though she were ashamed that Raoul had heard her saying such things. He walked into the room, and directly to her, wrapping his arms about her waist and placing a soft kiss on her forehead.

Raoul glanced back at Constance then, "Olivier said you knew nothing of this."

"I did not," Constance said. The story as frightening, and to know that the Phantom was still there worried her greatly. She had never been one to back down from a challenge, but this just might be the occasion to start. She would definitely have to think about it, long and hard, though in the back of her mind she knew she was too inquisitive over such matters to not continue on and learn all she could about the Phantom.

"Well, now you know," Raoul replied distantly.

That was when she said something she knew she would regret, but she had to say it. "I know this may be impertinent to ask, but everyone says the Opera Ghost is gone. I have seen no indication that he still haunts the place… perhaps you should come to Paris and walk through the theatre. It may help your healing."

Raoul looked at her as though she had five heads, and shook his head in a determined fashion, "I will not allow it, not after almost losing Christine such a short time ago."

"Raoul, do not say you will never allow me back there. Your brother said we would never be married, and yet here we are," Christine reminded with a gentle prodding of her voice. "Music is my life, you know that, with or without that creature."

Raoul sighed unhappily and shook his head again in dismay, biting his tongue so he said no more. Constance looked at the Vicomte and his wife, and said to Christine, "Perhaps when the time comes for me to look for a new soprano, you may come back and grace us with your presence."

"Perhaps then," Christine nodded solemnly, though Constance saw the flash of excitement of the offer go through the young Vicomtess' eyes.

Constance glanced down at the babe within her arms and smiled, glanced back up at Raoul, "Your daughter is beautiful, Raoul. She has your eyes."

"And her mother's perfect features in every other aspect," he smiled warmly, finally, and walked over to her, reaching out to take the child.

Constance sighed, "Well, I shall leave you three alone. I am quite exhausted after the trip here."

"We shall see you in the morning then, before mass," Christine called as she left. Constance left the nursery, and went directly back to her room, thinking about the story Christine had just told her. What a scary, perplexing story this was, and she needed to write it down before she forgot all the details. She sat down at the desk within the room, pulling out her leather bound book of paper she had sporadically kept as a diary since William's passing. Opening it up, she reached across the table for the pen propped up in its holder. Letting out a cleansing breath, she placed the nib to the paper and began to write the _Strange Affair of the Phantom of the Opera_.


	7. Weak Women

**_A/N: _****_Passing Stranger- Your comments are absolutely wonderful. I completely agree with your thoughts on the development of characters, and the three you commented on do need more attention. Hopefully the chapters you had not commented on at the time (2/2/05) have helped to fill in some of the wonder over a particular character that has still not been given motivation yet. I have a habit of expanding my explanations of characters out over multiple chapters so people aren't inundated with character sketches right off the bat, and no one has really commented on it before, but I am glad you did. You have drawn to my attention an area where I could improve the story._**

_**Thank you to ALL reviewers! I love to hear from all of you if it be constructive criticism, or just saying that you are enjoying the story.**_

Chapter 7- Weak Women

The quiet of the day before carried over into the next day, and lasted all through breakfast, during the ride to and from the church for mass, and then as the other couples dispersed to do what they wished for the afternoon. She felt uncomfortable around Raoul now, after getting Christine to tell of the Opera and the troubles they had been through. She was almost sure that he was annoyed with her for mentioning what she did to Christine about visiting the Opera Populaire. Apparently that news was also passed on to the others in the family, who had also grown even more on edge about the whole issue, no one daring to even speak of it in passing. There was an obvious discomfort between Olivier and Philippe, with the new strain on their friendship over the Opera. Joséphine seemed to be the only semi-peaceful link between her brother and husband, taking on the task as though she were a martyr of the whole circumstance because she did not initially wish Olivier to take the Opera, but stood by her husband's decision even with her family's position on the matter. And Christine, actually, seemed to be the only one who was cheerful, and still willing to talk about anything that came up in conversation. Constance found it funny that the one person who the fanaticism was directed at was not very worried about the Opera, or this mysterious Phantom. Perhaps it could have been her offer to Christine about the soprano position, but the young woman was still in a cheerful mood nonetheless that Joséphine was only a mask Christine always wore.

Constance did not know how she always managed to do this, everywhere she went… upset the flow and equilibrium of her surroundings. Of course, Olivier was the original one to blame, but she had pushed for the explanation as to why everyone was so disturbed over the matter. Sometimes her mouth more a curse than a blessing.

To not be a bother any longer, though she was not quite sure everyone considered her one, she decided to take a walk about the estate after luncheon. She found herself in the stables amongst the fine, thoroughbred horses, enjoying their company more than the company she would get back at the main house. Taking in a long, deep breath, she noted each of the smells within the large building. Cool early autumn air, hay, manure, and leather from the riding equipment all mingled together to settle in her nose. It was such a comforting smell to her, making her think of times better spent on her husband's estate back in England. William had always loved to ride, and did it with just as much zeal as he put forth and conquered other tasks in his life. Unfortunately, though, riding had also led him to his death… but she was at least comforted with the fact that he was doing something he loved so much when the accident happened.

Walking along each stall, she took a few moments to look into each one, most of the inhabitants of the stalls friendly enough to poke their head out of the iron bars to allow her admiration of their, fine, powerful physiques. She came to the last English thoroughbred of dark brown, who seemed to be have his own, gleeful personality about the world. He moved his head and nickered as though he were speaking to her, nudging her shoulder when she stopped petting him so that she would continue. Hair from his mane worked it's way to flop down onto his forehead, and into one of his large black eyes. He blinked agitatedly, tossing his head back, trying to move the hair from it's current resting place and she found herself laughing. It was just like William and his floppy hair… no matter what he had done, the hair would always end up in his eyes by the end of the day or night. She had threatened to take a pair of scissors to it once after they had been married a few years. Before then, it was merely something she found completely handsome, but after those few years, it just became a nuisance. He had responded jokingly by finding all of the scissors in the house and locking them away in a drawer she did have access to.

Constance shook her head and chuckled at herself. She had fretted over such insignificant things when she should have been spending more time just being thankful that she was in a marriage of love. But there was no changing that she worried over those things during her marriage now that it was over. She only hoped William had known how much she loved him despite her nitpicks.

The horse snorted and nudged her, the hair still in his eye. Being the merciful woman she was, she reached up and moved the hair back so that it was not bothering the animal any longer. She glanced around, finding a tin bucket of oats hanging off to the side. Taking her other glove off, she placed it with the other in the cloth belt about her waist, and dipped both of her hands into the oats. The horse excitedly accepted her gift, devouring the oats as though he had been starved for much too long. But again, with the way his head was tilted down, the hair fell back in his eyes. Licking her hand clean, the horse nickered a thanks, and went back to trying to get the hair from his eyes.

"Someone needs to trim your mane," she said with a laugh, wiping her hands on her skirts. She went back to petting the soft horse, completely content to stay talking to this creature who would never speak a word back to her.

However, she was interrupted by a light, but thoroughly, male chuckle. She turned around, finding Philippe resting against a wooden post, watching her with his arms folded across his chest. He smiled, "I knew you would be in here."

"Oh you did?" she questioned skeptically. "Or you could have just followed me out here."

"Or that," he admitted and stepped away from the post, walking over to her and the horse. How long had he really been watching her? He glanced at her and reached his hands out for the horse's head, "I see you made a friend."

"Seems to be the only friend I have made since I arrived here," she replied quietly.

He sighed and met her eyes, stopping the movement of her hand on the horse's cheek. "Constance, you aren't the reason for all of this. It's just a shock to us all that Olivier purchased the Opera and has you running it. I would never place another woman in there… not after I saw what happened with Christine and Raoul. And not only is he placing you in danger, but my sister as well as she will undoubtedly be around to help you some of the time. That thing, whether he is there or not, can play horrible games on a woman's mind."

"It would do you well to stop thinking women are weak-minded, Monsieur le Comte," she said flatly.

"Joséphine isn't? I know what you think of her," he said.

She rolled her eyes, "That was a long time ago, Philippe. She has changed for the better, even though she always reverts back to her old self when she is around you."

He grumbled and shook his head disappointedly, almost as though he did not believe her. He then went to another female, "Christine was… she still is."

"I do not know her well enough yet," she replied and brushed a curl from her own eyes that had fallen out of a pin. "And she is very young. She has much to learn."

Philippe sighed, "I felt awful for what she had gone through. I had to let Raoul marry her."

Constance could not believe what she was hearing, "You let them marry because of your pity? Philippe, I cannot believe you."

"What was I supposed to do? Tear the one thing my brother truly loved away from him?" he questioned. "I know it is bad for me to say this, but she is a singer… a dancer for Heaven's sake! She comes from a family of beggars. How could she possibly make a decent Vicomtess? She has had no social training."

"Oh please, Philippe. You are sounding like all those people I have tried to distance myself from for so long," she said. "All the people _we _tried to distance ourselves from as adolescents."

He let out a irritated groan and shook his head, "I have changed since that time, Constance. Much happens between a man's thirty-third year to his forty-third."

Constance was silent for a few moments and turned away from him, "Fine, you continue think that, I do not plan on arguing about that. But I will not sit idly by as you say women are weak."

"Not everyone is like you, Constance… and even you are weak. Just when you were speaking with the horse, I could tell you were thinking of your husband," he said. "Do you realize how easily it is for a man to come along and mold your mind to his will after such a loss? If that _thing_ at the Opera captured your impressionable mind… I know not what would happen."

"That is ludicrous," she said defiantly. "Yes, I was thinking about William, but just because I lost him does not mean that I cannot make sound decisions on other issues."

"On matters of love?" he questioned, joining her side, and placing his hands on her shoulders, to turn her to look up at him. "If the Opera Ghost were to come to you for that purpose?"

That comment made her positively livid. She met his eyes, "Philippe… I am not eager to love again. Why would I bend myself to suit the Opera Ghost's needs?"

He was silent, and she looked away from him. With a sigh after a few long moments, she met his eyes again, "I remember a man who thought the role of society was outdated and believed women were precious beings and not some weak, pity-seeking souls. What happened to him?"

"That man is still here, Constance," he said. "But on this issue, I hold firm to my beliefs. Nothing good can come from this Opera… nothing at all. And every woman who steps into that place is weak and deserving of my pity."

"That is a blanket statement, Philippe," she pointed out. "How do you know this Phantom has designs for other women in the Opera House? Besides, he is no longer there."

"I worry for the men too, but they can defend themselves. And don't say that you can… because I know you do not know how to use any weapon," Philippe said, letting a long sigh escape his lips. A moment of silence passed between them as she hoped the look of anger in her eyes was evident enough for him to notice. "Constance, I have always cared about you, from the moment I was introduced to you. I speak these things because I am truly worried about your entire family's involvement with the Opera."

"But you seem to have forgotten the way to persuade me into things. Insulting my intelligence is not one of them," she said. "Neither is questioning my ability to remain strong, even through times of sadness. You know this only makes me more willing to prove you wrong."

Philippe nodded and let go of her, walking back toward the horse, where he looked over the stall. She watched Philippe move, his hands running along the sleek-bodied animal, his jaw clenching and unclenching many times as it seemed he was trying to calm himself. He unlatched the stall and went inside, grabbing a brush from the wall. Setting to task, she watched him even more closely. Philippe had always done this when they were younger, bottle all of his anger up so that he did not completely shame himself by yelling and letting lose on everyone, just like his sister Joséphine.

"You truly do not want me there?" she questioned, softening her stance.

He stopped and looked up at her, "No, I do not. I know I have no claim over you as your husband, but as a friend I love, I do not want you there. Christine was stalked, Raoul faced his almost sure death… and I almost lost my life as well. I knew it was a mistake on the Opera Ghost's part, but it was a nearly fatal one. It is not safe, I do not care even if you prove to me he is gone."

"Philippe," she said quietly, walking over to the stall and stepping inside. She placed her hand on his to stop the movements of his hand and wooden brush, and he turned to look at her, "I appreciate that you care for me so, I really do, but I promised Olivier I would do this for him. At the first sign of trouble, I promise I will leave."

Too bad that first occurrence had already happened with the note she received from the Opera Ghost. Perhaps on a second occurrence…

"I do not think that if there was a first sign you would be able to recognize it, Constance, because his trickery is beyond anything I have ever seen or heard," he said.

"Then I suppose you will just have to visit regularly to make sure everything is running smoothly," she said with a small smile, hoping he also took some happiness in that as he seemed to find no happiness in the Opera at all.

The corners of his lips curled into a small smile, "Are you inviting me to visit you?"

"Wouldn't you make regular trips to Paris anyway, to see to it that I was not being harmed?" she questioned, raising a brow.

He chuckled, and nearly blushed, looking away from her, "You have not forgotten of me at all, have you?"

"No," she said. Philippe shook his head sheepishly and turned back to her, a bright flash going through his grey eyes. He took her hand and placed the brush where he had gotten it, leading her out of the stall. He closed it and pulled her to the right. "Where are we going, Philippe?"

He glanced back at her and smiled, not saying anything more, as he entered a small room in the stables, finding it to be where he kept his menagerie hunting dogs. In the corner of the room, surrounded with a nest of hay and warm cloths, lay a beautiful Brittany spaniel, brown and white, five large puppies laying in front of her nursing noisily. She chuckled and glanced up at him. He smiled, "I remember that you loved Louis, my Brittany, when we were courting. These pups are direct descendants."

She smiled, and walked over to them slowly, not wanting to worry the mother. Being careful, she squatted down, reaching her hand out to the grown bitch's face to see if she would do anything. The dog only licked her hand and looked up at her with it's soft, inquisitive eyes. Scratching her behind the ear, Constance laughed at the pups now jockeying for position and squealing harshly if they pushed out of place.

"You are such a paradox, Constance," Philippe said from where he stood watching her. "You claim to be tough, and yet the instant you see a baby animal of any sort, you fall madly in love with it."

"Is it so bad I maintained some of my femininity?" she questioned sarcastically. Constance reached over and picked up the pup with a tiny green and brown leather collar about it's neck, that had stopped feeding, too tired to worry about fighting his siblings. "Any babe pulls me into it's clutches."

"I see," he said with a laugh.

Constance lifted the puppy up to her eye level, and brought it to her lips, kissing it's forehead. She laughed when the pup lapped it's tiny pink tongue out at her. Turning it so Philippe could see it's open eyes, she rested it's cheek against her own, "How could you deny a face like that?"

"That is something I often wondered myself when I let you go," he said.

She blushed, finding that comment to be right in context to Philippe's usually debonair qualities. Placing the puppy down, she stood up and brushed some of the hay off of her skirt, "Philippe, you are barking up the wrong tree."

"I cannot help it. I comes naturally to me," he said, offering his arm to her.

"I know," she responded. "Just don't go overboard with it."

He nodded and started in the direction of the passage to leave the stables. Soon they were on the path about the garden, meandering their way back to mansion, reminiscing about the times he would bring her out here, against the expressed wishes of both their sets of parents, worried that he would take advantage of her. But all they had ever ended up doing on those excursions was talking about the stars in the sky or of dreams in their heads.

"I am sorry this weekend has turned out like this," she said.

"Do not worry about it. The world will not cease it's existence," he said. "But I am unhappy that the weekend was so short… I'll just have to visit you frequently in Paris."

"Then I shall be prepared," she smiled, knowing exactly then what his intentions were not necessarily to see to it that she was safe, to try to woo her into his arms again. But she knew she would not give into him, no matter how hard he tried.


	8. Why So Silent

_**I didn't want to start begging, but here I go… Please remember that I do cherish every single review I get! I would love to hear from all of you reading and enjoy, or disliking. And if you are disliking, tell me why and I will fix it! I am completely amenable to constructive criticism.**_

_**Thank you to all the reviewers thus far!**_

_**Note that there will be a Bal Masque in this story, like Mandy's, but it's just that time of the year in both our stories.**_

_**Read the last chapter if you missed it!**_

_**Anyway, on with the show, and as always… ENJOY!**_

_**Words to know:**_

_Branleuse- insignificant or stupid person_

_Spanish man in here, speaking broken English. If the grammar is wrong, it is on purpose._

_Señorita- Miss_

_La Fantasma- do I really need to translate?_

_España- Spain_

_Compadres- friends_

_Muy pocito- very little_

_Su primo- your cousin_

Chapter 8- Why So Silent

Oh how he hated to be kept waiting. He hated people who made plans and promises, never to keep them. Like the woman manager not deigning to show up on Monday morning… or the entire day for that manner.

Did she not believe this Opera to be an important undertaking that her brother had laid in her hands? She should have been there to direct the contractors. After all, if he was her, he would have been there every single day, making sure everything possible was getting done to hasten the reopening of the Opera. But he knew he was not like anyone else in his pure love for and dependence on music, and this woman was probably out gallivanting at some country estate, taking tea with womenfolk, gossiping about the most inane things known to humankind. He loathed society women, the weak, dim-witted _branleuse _that they were. This Opera should have been her top priority, not working to keep her spot in society.

The all too familiar feelings of his hopes being dashed invaded his senses- the ones he had made upon first seeing her and hearing her views on how to make this Opera better. She did not show as much care in it right away as he thought she would, even if she was detained for other serious reasons. Really, he had been preparing for someone who could finally make this Opera all he had ever dreamed it could be… someplace that he could be proud of once again. But she, like everyone else he had ever known, had only cemented his belief that everyone took their good fortunes for granted, especially when they did not have to thrive off the happenings of the Opera and the music created in it. The was the only way he could communicate with people, and the only way he had ever been able to talk Christine down into his subterranean lair. It was his domain and he wanted everything to be as perfect as it could possibly be.

But it would never be so perfect because his dear Christine would not be there to sing for him. His soul… the one woman he had given his soul to through his music… would never return.

He often wondered how he even had hope for anything good and held any faith in his blackened heart anymore… there was no purpose to it… not for a man born of the Devil like himself.

Or had he scared her away with the letter? Had he scared her away like Christine?

He chuckled. Constance did not seem to be like the type, from her letter back to him, to run away from his nicely put demands, even if she believed in the horrible stories of the Opera Ghost.

Erik sighed heavily to himself for what seemed like the one millionth time, and shook his head, to try to stop his thoughts. Straightening body from his hunched position at the organ, the tiny pops from his vertebrae that followed found his ears as the bones aligned along his spinal column. He had meant to sit down to compose something when he woke that morning, to take his mind away from his anger of being stood up by the, as of yet, strange woman, and also from the deep-seeded anguish of losing Christine that had happened a considerable time ago, but still remained so fresh in his head. What he had ended up doing instead of composing anything (not even one note), however, was languishing in the thought of Christine until it slowly turned into drawing parallels between her and to the new thorn in his side… not that Christine was ever vexing to him. Well at least she was not until the Vicomte showed up. But his composing was hard to do now, and would always be hard to do as _his _Angel of Music was no more.

Glancing at his pocket watch, he decided that it was time to see if the manager had shown up or not for the week. It was early afternoon, so if she was going to make an appearance that day, she would have. He was not quite sure if he wanted to have this meeting with her right away, but he told himself he would be prepared if he found the perfect chance to interrupt her.

Standing from his seat, he adjusted the wig upon his head, and tied the cravat laying loose about his neck. Shortly after securing his mask to his face and wrapping his cloak about his body, he started off on the long journey up to the first true level of the Opera house. As he neared the surface of the theatre, he passed underneath the stage where he could hear the incessant banging of hammers and other crude machinery, the shouts of men's voices over all of the racket, yelling at each other for help or giving orders.

At least someone was doing their job today. And they were doing a fine job of it as well. The work they had completed in such a short time was astounding for mere contract carpenters. When he went about looking over their handiwork on Sunday, their token day of rest, he found that the new supports were in place, and all they needed to do was build the shell around it. Perhaps the Opera Populaire would open much sooner than he had expected, and that thought soothed him a bit.

He came out of the hidden passage in Madame Giry's old room, straightening his vest one more time and breathing deeply. Really, he could care less for dealing with people in the outside world, especially those not of refined intelligence like he, but he needed to see that his demands were met, so he would venture out of the dark for only this one meeting with the manager. He did not foresee any chance for another meeting with her if he laid out his requests and made it imperative that she follow them, though he really did not wish to torment her as he did the others. There was no reason to do so anymore.

Jumping between the shadows of the backstage area, he made his way soundlessly to the manager's complex and to her office. Or at least where she was the week before. He stopped at the door, hearing two voices inside, one distinctly male with a heavy accent he could not quite place and the other a soft feminine one. The feminine one belonged to Constance, but he was not sure about the male.

"How did you find out about the Opera reopening?" Constance questioned the inside the room with her.

"I saw workers here on Friday when I arrive," said the man. Erik strained to decide just what nationality he was, but after a few moments he decided Spanish was probably the best bet. With all the different dialects he had heard coming through this Opera and with the little bit of traveling he was put through as a child with that excuse of a circus, he personally found Spanish and Italian were rather hard to pick apart. Others probably would not think so, but he did.

There was silence in the room and the shuffling of papers, "I spoke with Monsieur Reyer yesterday, at my brother's home, about the position of conductor. He has agreed to come back to the Opera, and we have decided that auditions will be held in a fortnight. What part will you be auditioning for? Baritone or tenor?"

"Baritone, _Señorita_," he said with a small laugh in his voice.

That confirmed his suspicions.

Then Constance chuckled, "Very good. We would very much like to have you audition. I fear it will be hard to fill our company with the past stories of this opera."

The man sighed, "I have hear these tales of _la Fantasma_, but I worry not. If you cannot find enough to fill cast, then I have _mucho compadres_ in _España_ who come if I ask for them."

"I shall keep that in mind, Señor de la Vega," she spoke. Erik could have sworn she spoke with an accent as well. She could have been mimicking the way the man had introduced himself, but it sounded authentic over her normal French-accented English, or pure French.

"Señorita, your voice…" de la Vega spoke. "You know my language?"

She laughed lightly, "_Muy pocito_, Señor."

It sounded odd to hear her now speak with French-accented Spanish, though she spoke it with a degree of pureness.

"My mother was a Spaniard. Her father was the Visconde Carlos Montenegro of Pamplona," she said.

Now that was an interesting fact. She was only part French.

"I know of _su primo_… Barón Montenegro," de la Vega said.

"Ah," Constance said, and let a long breath from her mouth. Getting the feeling that she was about to dismiss the baritone, Erik quickly moved away into the dark shadows. Soon the door opened and there appeared a tall man, the epitome of a Spanish Don Juan, thin dark mustache resting just above his upper lip, dark hair and eyes, and gold skin. Many of the Spanish nobles were more European looking, but there were many more Spaniards with such traits since the explorations of the New World. "It was a pleasure meeting you, good sir."

"The pleasure is mine, Señorita," he said, quickly seizing her hand and kissing the back of it. The man backed away smoothly, walking toward the exit. Constance stood and watched him leave, as Erik tried to decide what to do next. She let out a breath of exasperation and turned back for the door, and in that instant he knew what he was going to do.

* * *

Constance chuckled to herself, again recalling the order of the meeting she had just had with the Spanish baritone. She had traveled to Spain many times because of her mother, and met many men that were like Marco de la Vega, and found that it always made the country interesting, if not other social engagements. It would be nice to have some of the Latin fire in the cast, though she would have to wait for a few weeks to see if he could sing or not.

With a sigh, she pulled the door closed, but decided to leaveit open just a crack. Glancing about the large office, she let a long breath escape her lips. It had been a busy few days after returning from the weekend in the country. She had appointments all the previous day, with a supervising stagehand and the conductor, Reyer. The meeting with Reyer last most of the day, and since he was willing to be reinstated as the concert master, they had spent some time discussing how and when auditions would occur. They would have to audition an entire company of actors and singers, and Reyer would personally have to hold auditions for his orchestra. If Madame Giry accepted her invitation back to the Opera, then they would also need to get started on ballet auditions.

All of this planning and sorting out of things was much more tedious and tiresome than she had originally thought it would be, but she was quickly getting into the groove of things despite the utter madness of all that was going on around her. First she had the meetings and auditions, then she had to see to the advertisements to let people know they were reopening the Opera. And on top of all of that, she was talked into holding the yearly Bal Masque on New Year's Eve by Olivier on the way home from the Comte's country estate. Olivier tried to make it seem as though he was really keen on the idea because of a desire to have a lively party and to farewell the old managers as the Duchy de Louvois opened a new, short season of the Opera. But she knew the true reason… and that was so he could invite the Chagnys to the event, in hopes of quelling their fears over the Opera Ghost.

Constance, never the one to dislike planning soirees of any type, agreed to begin planning it, though she hoped all the renovations would be completed for the Bal Masque, to allow everyone an opportunity to see the beauty once again restored to the theatre.

For a short while, though, she could hold off on really planning the Masque, especially with the heap of letters sitting upon her desk with the daily paper. She had been looking through them for an indication of another queer letter with a red skull seal and black lining, but she was, in a way, relieved not to find anything of that sort, though also, in a way, she was disappointed that she had not received one, as she wished to meet this man she had only heard stories about.

Sitting behind her desk, she began to open the letters. That was until she heard the door creak. She looked up, expecting it to be Olivier stepping into the room, back again to make sure she could handle all of this. Something that Philippe and Raoul did must have frightened him dearly, because he was now very wary about leaving her alone in this Opera. She had shooed him away many times, but he kept coming back whenever he had a chance. She was completely convinced, though, she could handle it herself.

No one was there, and the door had only moved a hair more than before. Telling herself it was just a draft, she went back to reading. Not two seconds later, did the door creak again and instead of only moving an inch, it let out a long, excruciating wail as the hinges rotated to accommodate the heavy mahogany door. Constance set the letter in her hand down, and looked from side to side, and then at the door, feeling uneasy with the situation. Standing up slowly, she took the sharp letter opener with her. She stepped out of the door, looking down the passages, finding only empty space.

"Hello?" she called out, hearing her voice waver. No answer came.

With a nervous chuckle, she shook her head and pulled the door tightly closed this time, latching the lock into place. She glanced at the knife in her hand and laughed again, rolling her eyes. Perhaps just being in this Opera house was damaging to one's head. Things like that could seriously do harm to the reasonably gullible.

"Why do you laugh?" came a smooth, lyrical, voice from inside the room with her. A mysterious voice. An extremely delightful voice, even though in that simple sentence she could tell it was riddled with many dark secrets of his past.

She jumped high, her heart pounding in her chest as she whipped around, holding the knife out in front of her. There, sitting in the chair behind the desk, was the source of the voice. He smiled… no, sneered more like… though it could have been his smile as it appeared difficult for him to smile on one side of his face… the side of the face covered with a white mask. Realization dawned on her, and she pushed back against the door, her hand searching blindly for the doorknob. But she stopped herself. There was certainly no use in trying to get out, especially when she had been the one to propose a meeting.

How had he gotten into the room? How had he moved so quietly?

Instead of remaining in the seat, the man stood, his body straightening to reveal a man of lean, but muscled, stature. As he stalked toward her slowly, in a cat-like grace she had not expected, his size multiplied until he was standing over her. He was outfitted in fine wool garments, silk vest and a black cravat held tied to his white shirt with a single, white pearl tack. He was certainly well dressed for a man who supposedly spent his life down in the cellars of the Opera. As a matter of fact, he dressed much like the proper gentlemen out in the light of day.

She could not bring herself to look up into his eyes. Her heart beat against her breast wildly, her breathing shallow and labored. The lump in her throat grew bigger, not allowing her to speak. She felt warm leather upon her hand, and found his long fingers, covered in fine lamb-skin gloves, wrapping around her wrist. His other hand circled around the letter opener, and with a gentle tug, he freed it from her grasp. It took a few moments for the realization to creep through her head, as to what exactly he had done, and he only laughed lowly at her.

"You are not so tough now that you cannot hide behind a pen and paper," he spoke, low and slightly lilting, tossing the letter opener across the room. It landed with a loud, heavy thud on the desk, sliding to a stop against a stack of papers.

"I-I…" she said, stopping herself as she tried desperately to search for air somewhere in her lungs. Finally finding it, she let it out, and sucked in a large amount, gaining enough courage to look up at him. He was a very tall man, compared to her stature. His eyes were a clear blue-green, the one on the side of his face the mask hid drooped slightly. But it was not that bad… she had seen many with a droopy eye here and there. What could possibly be beneath the mask that was so horrible to cause Christine such a deal of fright? Surely, with half a face as handsome, and eyes like that, it could not have been that bad.

Could it?

She felt a sudden urge to reach up and rip off the mask to see what lay beneath, but she balled her hands into fists, pulling them harshly away from his strong grasp. Where had that urge come from? Was it her curiosity? Or was something tempting her to do that? Was he willing her to do it? To pull it off? So that he would be justified in hurting her?

"Why so silent?" he questioned, something in his eyes changing from the sinister, dark cloud to a lighter, happier expression.

Constance looked away from him, and pushed past him quickly, walking into the center of the room. She did not bother to turn around to face him until she had her heart, breathing and thoughts under control, but she knew he was watching her closely. She could feel his eyes on her, weighing and measuring her. Christine was right. Anywhere she moved, she could feel his eyes on her, and that was not a pleasant feeling.

"How did you get in?" she questioned finally, turning to look at him.

He remained by the door, and glanced about the room with a smirk on his face, "That is for me to know, and you not to."

Constance scoffed and shook her head, "Fine."

"Good Madame, I did not come to discuss how I move about my Opera," he said. "As per your request, through your letter, I have granted you a meeting where we shall discuss my demands."

"Let us get one thing straight, Monsieur Opera Ghost," she retorted, feeling her strength once again flow through her, giving her the courage she needed to stand up to him. He had caused that door to swing open as it had, and he only did it so he could frighten her badly enough to gain an upper hand in this meeting. Too bad for him, she was intelligent enough to figure that out. She stood tall, and raised her chin, "It is my brother's Opera, not yours."

The white-masked man snorted, "You could severely hurt your neck holding it like that."

Constance raised a challenging brow, and placed her hands on her hips, "It is not your Opera."

"I think we have that straightened out, Madame," he said. "As it seems you will not be changing your mind soon…"

"Monsieur, why did you ever think it was yours to begin with?" she questioned condescendingly.

He smirked, "It has always been mine. It is where my genius lives and thrives. But I did not come here to discuss that. About my salary…"

"You are not working for me, why do you deserve a salary?" she questioned, now moving her arms to cross them over her chest.

"It is a small stipend to keep me out of your hair, and for my offering of small advice here and there," he said.

"Twenty thousand francs is small!" Constance found herself nearly screeching.

He gave her a challenging glare, "You brother is a Duc. You are a Marquess… or Marchioness. Were you in England? Is that where your husband is from?"

She tuned away from him and walked behind the desk, sitting down in the chair. She did not care to reply to that obvious question meant to dig into her private life. "I will give you twenty thousand a month if you can prove to me you are doing something worthwhile for this Opera."

"You will make me work for my money?" he questioned. "That is rather duplicitous coming from a woman who has made her entire fortune off birth and marriage."

"Do you really wish to make me angry?" she look at him.

That was when he walked toward the desk and placed his palms flat on the wood, leaning over his arms to look down at her. He said lowly, "Do you really wish to make _me_ angry, Madame?"

She was silent, feeling a cold shiver run down her spine. His eyes were so cold… so lifeless now. He was not acting as though he would harm her. Actually it seemed he was just throwing his weight around to see how far he could get her to concede to his wishes. It was not that uncommon for the men out in the world to do this as well. He stepped back with a flourish of black cloak she had not originally noticed he was wearing.

"I shall return tomorrow after you have had time to think," he said. "I need that money to survive."

With that, he left the room, and she was left in complete silence. He did not seem like he was that close to a homicidal rage, but he was certainly trying to use mind games on her to get her to concede to his demands. And so she was left to debate her thoughts, and what she was going to do, now that the first meeting, that would end up a long string of meetings, with the Phantom was finished.


	9. The Language of Flowers

**_A/N: Thank you reviewers! Did not mean to make my call reviews so demanding, just wanted to make sure everyone was still following it, or if they had stopped because of my bad writing. I smile humbly. _**

_**As with most Victorian etiquette, they often go over the top of what we would normally expect. The movements of fans and the arrangement of flowers, while the simplest things, could mean social life or death.**_

Chapter 9- The Language of Flowers

Days passed, and she heard nothing from the Phantom. There had been no strange incidences about the Opera to the workers, and she had received no other notes from him. For the first few days, after their initial meeting, she had been in a constant state of awareness that he could appear at any time and threaten her again if she did not do as he wished. Every corner she turned, she expected to see him metastasize out of thin air, or walk through a wall. But he had seemed so real… despite his cold, dead eyes, he was a living body. He was a man… with a real life… full of Lord knew what. There was no possible way he could be a Ghost, and she knew that for certain after speaking with Christine, but after that meeting and having him thoroughly scare her like he had, she toyed with the idea that perhaps he was not human, or could at least conjure up a bit of magic to make himself appear and disappear without having to use a door.

Of course, though, she being a practical thinker, despite her proclivities for strange happenings and what not, she could not accept that thought. She had to figure out how he had managed to get into her room. After those few days of waiting, almost dreading the moment he would come to her again, she began to search the room for hidden entrances. She ran her hands along the wood paneling, and over the books, searching for some mechanism that to reveal a trap door. Anyone who would have walked in on her might have considered her mad, talking to herself as she stared at the wooden panels, and fingered them. But she was on a mission and would not rest until she found a way to disprove his entire, ethereal being. To her dismay, now a week and a half later, she still had not found any doors. Many times she felt that he was somewhere in the room with her, watching her and laughing for the way he had confused her in his entrance.

He stayed a good distance away from her, and she wondered if it was to anger her, or to let her try to sort the information out herself, to see if he had any affect in making her think she was crazy. There were a few times she had, but she just had to remind herself that there was a man living below the opera, and had tormented Christine. And to an extent was tormenting Constance now, but almost in a jesting way.

Had he given up? No, she could already tell he was not that type.

Was he pushing her to see how far she would go? Would she cave in out of her sheer torment from not being able to figure out where he had come from, and give him what he hoped for?

But he did not know her, and did not know the tenacity she employed.

She had not told anyone of the occurrence, and intended not to. She was going to get to the bottom of this if it killed her…

Constance sat back in her seat, her neck and shoulders stiff from sitting over the paperwork in front of her. After her meeting with the ballet mistress, who surprisingly had nothing to say about the Opera Ghost, a list had been compiled of dancers names that Giry had already spoken to about joining the Opera Populaire. It was up to Constance, though, to see to it that papers were drawn up for their contracts. It was true that in the past week and a half she had fully staffed her office with a group of very capable workers (which was good for the mere fact she would not be alone if the Phantom were to come to the office again), but it was her job to look through the contracts before they were signed, despite the fact that they were for mere ballet rats, and not the main stars.

Auditions for acting and singing roles were to be held in two days' time, so she hoped to be finished with the other administrative duties before then and havingonly to worry about negotiating salaries with the larger stage entities in the cast.

She rested her head back against the chair, closing her eyes tightly and letting out a long yawn. It had been a very long day. And just as she was beginning to drift off into a peaceful, short nap, the sound of the creaking floorboards startled her. Her eyes snapped open, and she turned her head in the direction of the sound. No one there. Oh, this was no good at all. She waited for another sound, but none came. She heard footsteps on the wood floor, and then the door opened wide to reveal her secretary balancing a large lead glass vase in his hands, multitudes of flowers spilling out of it.

"Who sent these?" she questioned, standing up and directing her secretary to place them on an empty circular table in the rotunda of full bookshelves to the right of the office.

"I do not know, Madame," said the secretary, a young lad of only twenty and of a rather queer disposition.

Constance walked to the flowers, looking over them carefully and breathing in the delightful scent they produced. Trying to recall her memory of the meanings of flowers, from when she was in finishing school, she noted the different types of buds. The main flower of the arrangement was a bluebell- the symbol of constancy. Accented about the display of bluebells rested white clover and four-leaf clover. She could not recall exactly what those meant, but she knew that the purple lilac was a mention of the first emotions of love, and the white rose a message of worth.

"The courier did give me this letter," her secretary said. "I do not know the seal."

She reached for the folded paper and turned it over to look at the seal, finding the family crest of the County de Chagny. Her face grew warm and she shook her head… now she knew the meaning behind the flowers, even without having to look into the envelope for the accompanying letter. He really did not waste any time, did he? Glancing up at her secretary, "Thank you, Gustave, that'll be all. Please close the door on the way out."

He nodded and left the room, leaving her to the pleasantness of silence. She slipped her fingers beneath the flap of the envelope, breaking the blue seal easily. Pulling the letter out, she held it up to read from his terribly scrawling handwriting.

_Dearest Constance,_

_I had to take a moment out of my busy schedule to send you a well thought-out bouquet, not only for luck in running the Opera, but also for the lovely weekend in the country. I am sure that you know the language of flowers well, and by now have connected my wax seal with the meaning of the bouquet. I realized over the weekend we shared that there were still things left between us quite unsaid when our families ended talks of marriage. I have thought about you often in the ten years you have been away, and I remember your beauty of form and mind, but I had not imagined that with the passage of time people could become more attractive and interesting. I suppose I can only hope you think the same about me, though at times I do not feel like I could be worthy of any woman's love. _

_It weighs heavily in my mind that you may not feel keen to accept this courtship (as you nearly stated at the country estate), having lost someone you love so dearly. In fact, you may never love another again as you loved William, but I ask that you give me a chance to prove myself to you once again. I will not disappoint you, and I only ask for your open mindedness at this time before completely closing me off from your heart. _

_I remain, Constance, your eternal follower if it is in this life or the next._

_Philippe, Comte de Chagny._

She smiled softly to herself, rereading the letter twice more, her heart swelling with admiration gradually each time she read the words. For an instant she thought it disrespectful to the memory of her husband to be thinking such things, but how could she not feel somewhat amorous over such a letter and declaration of deep, abiding friendship, if not love? He was one of the most honorable men in the world, and she should have felt just as honored to be receiving such a letter from a man who had supposedly confirmed his bachelorhood. He was right, however, that she was not at all prepared to love someone else, except she already knew she would allow a courtship to progress to see where it would go. After all, if anything, they would always be friends.

"Someone cares deeply for you." The voice was so close, yet so far away, but it was certainly evident who had said it.

She jumped high with a loud scream coming from her mouth. Placing her hand to her chest trying to calm her wildly beating heart, she turned quickly to see the dark-cloaked figure within the room and admiring the flowers. How had she not heard him enter then? Had she really been that into thinking about the letter and Philippe that she had not even noticed him entering? Oh this was going to vex her even more than before.

The door to the office flew open, revealing both Gustave and Olivier. Olivier questioned worriedly, "What's wrong, Connie? What happened?"

"What are you doing here, Olivier?" she questioned, breathing deeply to calm herself a bit more.

"What happened? Answer me that first," Olivier demanded.

Constance glanced about the room nervously, hoping Olivier did not see her eyes moving as secretively as she tried to move them. Glancing quickly toward the rotunda of books, as though she were shifting her skirts and looking down at them to straighten herself, she could not see the Phantom there. Where in God's good name had he disappeared to now?

"Constance!" her brother exclaimed, walking around to her and placing his hands on her shoulders to turn her to him. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Then there was silence, as Olivier realized what he had said.

"Is it the Opera Ghost?" Olivier questioned.

Constance, realizing she had gotten sidetracked in her thinking, blinked her eyes a few times and shook her head as if to clear it. She chuckled lowly and turned back toward her desk, setting the letter she still held down on top of it. "No, it was a mouse… a very fat mouse… skittered across the floor just as I was about to take a step."

He looked at her suspiciously, and turned to Gustave, "Call for some traps to be set in here."

The secretary left obediently. Olivier turned back to her, looking her over again. "Are you sure it was only a mouse?"

"I've seen plenty of mice before, Olivier. I should think I know what one looks like," she replied wryly.

He rolled his eyes in a sarcastic manner, "That is true."

"Why are you here? I thought you had finally realized that I can run this Opera myself," she said, brushing a loose curl from her hair, glancing back toward the rotunda for any sign of the Phantom. Wherever he was, he was probably listening into the conversation.

"I came by with some news for you," Olivier moved his eyes in the direction as well, catching her slight fixation on looking that direction. He was always too astute. But instead of a worried look spreading on his features, he only smiled devilishly and walked into the rotunda to gaze at the flowers. "Flowers, Constance? From whom?"

"I would tell you, but I believe you already know the answer to that question," she remarked, sitting at her desk.

He smiled again, walking back to her, "He has always spoken of you as the one who got away."

"I find that funny considering our marriage talks were pretty much all based on money and land," she said.

"He realized afterward just how good he had it with you. No, that was his horrible mistake," Olivier nodded. "But he is making amends for it now."

"If I do not wish this attention?" she questioned.

He sighed and stopped to look down at her, "If it makes you feel uncomfortable, then tell him that. If he does not listen, I will flex my brotherly muscles around him. Does it make you feel uncomfortable?"

Constance shrugged and leaned her head upon her hand, "It is odd to think that I will have to live through the courting process again. And it is not so much that it feels odd, I just remember the love I shared with William, and I think it impossible to love another man like that."

"It would be foolish of anyone to think it possible," Olivier said. "But give the man a chance."

"I had intended to… but isn't that saying little of Philippe's feelings? I could never give him the complete surrender he wants and needs," she said.

He chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully, and sighed, "Once again, you make a very good point. But you will be able to discuss it with him this week."

"Why?"

"That is my news," Olivier said. "Apparently Raoul and Christine are moving back to the Chagny estate in Paris, so that Christine may once again take up her calling as a singer."

Constance felt the lump grow in her throat. If the Opera Ghost was listening, what could he be thinking now hearing about all of this? She wondered for a moment if she should stop them while she still had the chance to, warning them that the Phantom was still in residence here at the Opera. But that would also mean she would not be allowed to stay and cultivate the Opera. To hide her wariness, though, she smiled slightly, "Really? I had not thought Christine would talk Raoul into that so quickly."

"Neither did I," said Olivier.

"She still must audition," she warned. "If she is not the best Monsieur Reyer sees, she should not expect to be placed in the cast just because of familial connections."

"I believe she understands that," Olivier said. "You will have enough to worry about with others thinking she is now a bad omen."

Constance nodded and sighed, "True."

Olivier flattened his rumpled vest and buttoned his frock coat, looking down at her, "Are you ready to leave?"

"No, I still have much to do," she said.

"It will still be here in the morning, Connie," he said softly.

"I know it will be, that is why I wish to get it done now so I do not have to dread it later," Constance countered.

Olivier through his hands up in mock surrender, and backing away toward the door, "Fine, fine, I shall see you for dinner."

"Good bye," she said, following him to the door and waving, closing it after him. Sliding the lock into place, she went to the rotunda and glanced around for any sign of the Phantom. She took a breath and said, "I know you were listening… show yourself and where you hide."

There was silence in the room for a long while, and she thought for a moment that he was truly not there. That was until she felt a gust of cold air on the side of her face. She turned to the side, seeing a thin panel of bookshelves open. Out stepped the dark-cloaked, mask-clad man in a confidently arrogant air. "I looked there many times… I could not find a latch or fake book…"

He chuckled, almost manically, and looked at her, "Madame, do you think I would reveal to you my secrets?"

"No," she said. She watched him slink about the room, past the flowers and to her desk again.

With a gloved hand, he reached out for the letter laying open. "You keep company with the Comte de Chagny?"

"I do," she nodded.

"And yet you are still here," he said quietly, glancing up at her. "Surely they have told you the horrors they encountered under my doing."

Constance nodded, "Yes they have, and yes I am still here. You do not frighten me, Opera Ghost…"

She realized that it really was ridiculous to keep calling _Opera Ghost_. Surely he had another name.

"What is your name, so that I may address you appropriately?" she questioned.

"What does another name matter? Opera Ghost is as good as any other name I take, and perhaps more meaningful to me," he said, not the least bit politely.

"Surely you must have a proper first name," she prodded, seeing that this line of questioning was annoying him.

He glared at her, "Titles and surnames are not privileges of the underworld, Madame."

Constance set her jaw, and crossed her arms over her chest defiantly, "And I did not ask for a surname or title, Monsieur. I asked for a first name only, so that I may address you politely. I find the name of Opera Ghost to be highly pretentious, offering you a false sense of security around your anonymity when it comes to trying to torment people."

The man looked at her in an equally defiant stance, an entire gamut of emotions going through his eyes, from the most obvious of surprise, to utter rage that he was treating her so. His eyes burned into hers as she stared him down, though the fury, power and utter grief supplying all his other emotions were almost too sad and frightening all at the same time to really keep eye contact with.

"Erik," he spit out.

"With a C? K?" she questioned.

He gave her a heated glare, "Why does it matter, Madame?"

"Tell me," she said, knowing that if she continued to do this, she would eventually know enough to hold over his head if he threatened her again.

But he seemed to know that as well, "Tis a K, and I shall say no more until you agree to my salary."

"So it is Swedish?" she questioned. "You speak with a good French tongue for being Swedish."

"I am not Swedish," he remarked. "I am nothing."

Constance nodded and walked around him to sit in her desk. He watched her closely for a few moments, waiting for her to speak, but when he saw her go to looking through her paperwork again, he let loose his displeasure. "Madame, I shall make this simple. Are you to give me a salary, or am I to waste into nothingness in my home beneath the Opera? I have no money to survive."

She had not imagined him trying the pity card, but she met his eyes. "I will give you your first months salary if you can promise me you will not harm or bother the Vicomte and Vicomtess de Chagny."

His face paled at that, even more so than it was, if that was at all possible. He backed away from her, "I cannot promise that."

"You can, or you will not eat," she said.

His lips set into a hard line, the look of pain in his eyes returning and really setting the feeling of her heart wrenching in her chest. He must have been supremely hurt by these people. By Christine. He sighed and looked away from her, "Out of necessity, I will commit to this promise. But if at any time you do not hold to your bargain and not pay me, all deals are off."

"I had imagined that," she said with a triumphant smile crossing her lips.

"And of my other demand for Box Five?" he questioned.

"When the Opera opens it's doors again, I shall leave the box open to you," Constance said. "Only on opening nights of performances. And this is only because you seem to have such a profound love for music to take residence in an Opera house."

Erik looked at her oddly, as though she were speaking in a different language and had fully expected to fight for that as well. He was speechless for a long while, as he stared at her in complete confusion. Had he never had someone make that connection before? Or was it just that he was surprised she had not put up a fight over it? He sighed and walked toward the open entrance again, turning to her quickly before closing it off, "Thank you."

Constance watched the door shut, hearing no sound of any mechanism. At least she knew how he got in now, and also that he was not as horrible as everyone made him out to be. Of course, she had seen every emotion in the book displayed prominently in his eyes, and still did not _know_ him, but she was a good judge of character (she hoped anyway). He may have committed many sins in the past, but that did not mean that he could not change.

After all, she had committed her fair share over her life.


	10. Goldencrowned Christine

_**Thank you reviewers, and for the French info Aranel Abielle! I can do Spanish as I've studied the language and the culture a bit (hence, the Spanish baritone and Constance's heritage) so my French knowledge is based on what I can learn on the internet and what I've read in various books.**_

_**How perfect could a chapter get? You've got everything from angst ridden Erik, tough Madame Giry, an on-her-toes manager, babies, the Chagny men… and the return of Christine.**_

Chapter 10- Golden-crowned Christine

He could not believe he had been so easily handled by that woman. For that matter that he had been so easily handled by _anyone_. Never had he allowed someone to tell him exactly what he was going to do, and actually agree to the conditions set forth. He was not governed by anyone other than himself, he had made that decision after escaping from the circus, and especially not by a completely insufferable woman like Madame Constance. And he certainly did not appreciate someone trying to hassle him into defenselessness with idiotic questions about his name and the origin of it.

He knew what she was trying to do, and it was not going to work.

But he did need to eat…

Oh this was such a vexing situation!

Or, mayhap, this manager was causing the vexing all on her own existence because of her unyielding personality and because of familial ties to the three people he could care less to see.

His troubles had really only just begun when the new manager took over and really mounted a serious argument against his demands before paying him or giving him anything. The managers in the past- including Lefevre- had all given him the money he required, because they held a healthy respect for his influence and what he could do should they not conform to his wishes. This Constance was foolish, though… much like André and Firmin. But her tomfoolery was different than that of her predecessors; her foolishness was trying to pry into his life. At least she did not turn her nose up at the idea that there was an Opera Ghost living with them in the theatre. She accepted the letters as real, and offered him a chance to prove his worth in the Opera. Granted, he was not thatpleasedwith having to reveal himself to her, but she seemed to know that getting him out of his comfortable darkness was the only way to make him either give up these requests, or fight for them.

So something had to be said for her intelligence and being able to understand that. He _was _impressed that she had the nerve to stand up to him with all the stories she had most certainly heard. She did not go huddle in a corner, begging for mercy after stating her opinion on matters. That, in itself, was something to be very admired about any woman of the age.

Sure, she was frightened when he entered her office unexpectedly, both times, but she recovered quickly and behaved around him as though he were nothing more than a contractor she would hire to work in the Opera. And she even knew the true happenings from Christine! How could she be so aloof to him when Christine had surely told him of the murders, and of her kidnapping? Surely the Comte and Raoul had embellished needlessly on issues to try to keep her away from the theatre. Nevertheless she was still there, challenging him, with a look of confidence on her face. What was this woman about that she could act like this? How could she act so bravely in the face of… this human distortion, inside and out?

It was true he did not go out in the light of day, and meet many women, but of the few he beheld here in the Opera, watching from his perches in the rafters or in his box, not one spoke with such an authority as Constance did. It was always the man the woman was with who spoke for her. A father, brother or husband always dictated her life, who she would marry, who she would take company with… what she would eat at a meal if there was a choice. Constance though… Constance was not like them. Even with her brother who had rushed in so suddenly after she had shrieked, had not second guessed her reason for being scared. Well, he probably was second guessing her in his mind, but the brother did not seem to take on the traditional role of not listening to her, and going on his own hunt for whatever had frightened her because he did not trust her.

That whole family was peculiar, from what he had seen in the past few weeks. They were not like others of the same position in society.

And then there was the quandary presented him with the mention of the names he wished he would never hear again. He could not accurately explain how he felt on the issue of the Chagnys once again coming back to the Opera Populaire. Finding out that they were in close relation with the new owners was not a pleasant surprise in the least. The Comte would be around often, supposedly to woo this Constance, and if what the brother said was correct, Christine and Raoul would be back to throw their love in his face again, while the damned ballet girl sang because of the gift he had given her! Even with his promise to Constance, he did not know what he was to do with Christine and Raoul both being in the vicinity again. He knew he would not hurt them, but it would be the most painful thing to see them together… more painful than watching them atop the roof on Apollo's Lyre confessing their love to each other.

What had turned from him thinking that perhaps Constance would be good for the Opera, was now a belief that nothing this family and Constance could do would be good for the Opera or himself. Not with Constance, and definitely not with the Chagny family coming back to Paris, and Christine being allowed to audition for lead Soprano- a position she would easily attain.

And though he had gone through such a meeting with the woman the previous afternoon, evoking all of these thoughts and new worries, he had left the office in such a hurry that he had forgotten to actually get the money. So he, again, was forced begrudgingly to resurface to try to catch Constance at an opportune time so that no other could see him. Unfortunately, though, this day was full of auditions for ballet dancers and orchestra spots, and Constance was out in the newly installed front row of the theatre, watching the auditions and practice take place.

He had come out into his box, through the paneling of wood, like he usually did on opera nights, and no one was around to see him, so he sat in one of the velvet upholstered seats still in the shadows, looking out over the balcony and down at the brightly lit stage. Constance sat quietly, looking as though she were paying more attention to the heap of papers in her lap than the dancers on stage. She worked with what light she could from the stage, since she still had no chandelier to light her work otherwise, squinting at some of the fine print. Really, what use was it to sit out here while the auditions went on if she had more important paperwork to do? He would never understand that, but he supposed it was to look involved with the Opera.

But if he were manager, he would have trusted Madame Giry to make the right decisions, and continued to work in his office. Glancing toward the stage then, he beheld the ballet mistress for the first time since that fateful night with Christine. She had stopped coming to see him after that, as she probably had very real reasons to believe he left and would never have anything to do with the Opera again. Or perhaps she had expected him to find her after escaping, rather than her having to look for him. For a moment he thought that she did not care for him anymore, because of the way he had treated her adoptive daughter, but when he finally went back to the caverns and his home to look over what damage had been done, he found a sum of money in a place only she knew of that had held him over until now, combined with the money saved from previous stipends. Surely she still thought about him… if she had been kind enough to leave that.

Nonetheless, this was still the first time he had seen her in almost two years. Had she thought him no longer there? Did she think him despicable? Would she look for him? Should he approach her again, or would she see to it that his crimes were atoned for? He was too worried to find out, but he wanted the best scenario to play out between them. After all, she had been the only woman to ever care for him.

Giry beat her cane on the wooden stage, sending resounding thumps through the auditorium in time with the delicate music being played by the pianist Reyer was also auditioning. Just like old times… so much activity that one found it really hard to concentrate on anything in particular. A ballerina stumbled slightly, rolling her ankle. She quickly hopped back into the exercises, but it was not as good as before, though she had not been anywhere close to perfect to begin with. Meg Giry walked along each row of carefully pirouetting girls, in the opposite direction of her mother, critiquing the girls as she went. It was obvious that little Meg had grown out of her ballerina costumes a long time past, but had never really taken on a teaching role as her mother had. Perhaps they had taught classes together while the Opera was closed, and had now earned her position beside her mother as an apprentice.

The cane stopped for a moment, and Giry glanced around, cringing outwardly. He heard it then. The pianist was hopelessly losing his rhythm and beginning to fumble the notes along with it. To the untrained ear, it might have still been pleasant to listen to, as it was not horribly noticeable, but to those who had been around it all their life, knew that the pianist's days the Opera Populaire were numbered.

Reyer came out from the orchestra pit, having been engaged with something else, and waved at the pianist, "Thank you, Monsieur Maigny, that'll be all."

Maigny stood from the piano and collected his things, giving an angry shake of his head as he scurried quickly out of the building like a pup with its tail between its legs. Giry let out a long breath, and glanced about at the girls. "You may rest and go change back into your normal clothes. Names of those I will be asking back for a part in the National Academy will be posted on the Opera house door tomorrow at eight in the morning. If you make the list, you must come to your first rehearsal tomorrow afternoon at three so we may discuss your living arrangements. Thank you ladies for coming… Madame Whitehall?"

Constance looked flustered, glancing up quickly, a pencil clenched between her teeth and a fountain pen in her right hand. She fumbled with the pencil and finally was able to speak, "Yes, Madame Giry?"

"Is there anything else you would like to add to my instructions?" the ballet mistress questioned, her defined, painted eyebrows raising in question. Giry thoroughly disliked those who did not pay attention.

"Yes I do," Constance replied, moving her papers to the chair beside her. She walked to the edge of the orchestra pit and looked at the girls. "When you come to look at list, and later for your meeting with Madame Giry, please remember we are holding rehearsals for singers all day and will need quiet to make adequate decisions."

He was amazed that Constance had been able to pay attention to everything that was going on, evidently having heard every word Giry had said, as she picked up the conversation in a relevant area, even while so into the paperwork she had brought out with her. He had expected her to fall flat in her face. Giry looked just as surprised as he felt and he knew then that Giry had not warmed up to the woman manager completely, although whether Constance knew it or not, she was proving herself through moments like these.

Giry turned to her class and continued to speak with them, shooing them away. As she turned back around, letting a long, exasperated breath from her mouth, she gazed up toward Box Five. It was a ordinary thing for her to do, he knew, and it had become a habit after a bit. He did not know why he thought he would remain unseen up there. Giry froze, their eyes meeting, and he felt the obvious disappointment just from that one glance. So she _was_ disappointed with him… perhaps not completely angry with him. She smiled slightly and shook her head, turning back to Meg who was talking about one of the girls.

Getting the intense feeling he should leave then, he stood from his seat, and made his way for the hidden paneling behind the curtain, but as he placed his gloved hand on the wood, he heard the large doors to the auditorium open on their rusty hinges. A great beam of golden-yellow light from the windowed foyers outside cast into the dark space of the theatre like some deity had just come down from his perch in the lofty clouds to grace them with His or Her presence. And from that doorway of gold, shimmering light, stepped out an angel with a bright halo crowning her head.

His heart stopped dead, he was sure for at least a solid minute (if not more), and he struggled to breathe. She had definitely returned… and this time with an addition of a small child bundled in her arms. He had tried to prepare himself for any manner of her return, but it had done nothing now in this time of seeing her. All those emotions, all the pain he had felt for losing her flooded back into his conscious memory. She looked happy… so impossibly happy… while he still lived with the regret of years passed. She looked different- even more beautiful if that was at all possible with her long, white neck bare as her hair was piled on top of her head with ringlets of brown crowning her face. A fancy dress adorned her frame of fuller breasts and wider hips…

And he remained the same, misshapen man.

She lived in happiness as he lived in grief. But he had allowed that to happen when he told her to go with the Vicomte.

"Christine!" he heard the manager shout from her spot. He turned and watched her walk quickly to meet Christine halfway down the aisle. Constance stopped and Christine made no shy attempt to bow her head, but put a free arm about the manager, and kissed both of her cheeks in greeting. The manager smiled brightly, "I cannot believe you have come, Christine."

"Neither have I," Christine said in disbelief. "I cannot believe Raoul allowed me to come back."

"I do not blame him for his worry… and you just had a child… and fitting into the life of Vicomtess takes practice. Singing will only add more stress to your life," Constance said.

Christine sighed peacefully, "Believe it or not, singing and acting is not horribly stressful to me. I love to do it, even here in this place that holds so many memories. Trying to please Raoul's society friends here in Paris, on the other hand, is a horrid chore that I would gladly distance myself from."

Constance chuckled and nodded, glanced down at the baby in Christine's arms. "And how is Mademoiselle Marguerite doing this fine day?"

"She fussed all night last night," Christine said quietly, quickly offering the child over to Constance. It was apparent that the novelty of the child had worn off.

"It takes some time to get used to Paris," Constance replied and took the babe into her arms, holding it closely to her bosom. "Doesn't it, dear Marguerite?"

Erik heard males conversing together from the lobby, and turned his attention back toward the door. All light had seemingly been sucked from the room then as the Chagny men entered, accompanied by Constance's brother Olivier. Raoul was certainly no saint or god in his mind. Olivier motioned about the room, pointing to some of the things that had been changed as the two women cooed over the small child, but the Comte's eyes were not following the directions, and only looking directly at Constance. He was like a man on a mission… or a lion stalking his prey.

Raoul and Olivier both glanced toward his box, and he moved back into the shadows a bit more to ensure he would not be seen. They turned their attention elsewhere, having not seen him, and slowly walked toward the women. Constance glanced up and smiled at the approaching men. Erik wondered where Olivier's wife was… as it seemed everyone else had come. They were an interesting pair… the Duc and his wife. They seemed to genuinely love each other, but also had a certain superficial air about them. When they had first come to look through the Opera, the wife had spent the entire time telling him that purchasing this was not a good idea- that she could not take part in it because of the history of the Phantom. But after some cajoling on Olivier's part, though, and a promise of large piece of jewelry, the wife had resentfully agreed.

Perhaps the wife still believed it was wrong and did not come for that reason… or she could have just been taking tea with someone.

But it did not matter to him at moment. With a heavy sigh and a shake of his head, he decided he had enough of this scene, and escaped through the wood paneling. Tomorrow he would try to find Constance alone.


	11. Welcome Back

**_A/N: I am so mean to Erik. He had enough worry and jealousy with the young Chagny brother, now he'll have to deal with the older Chagny brother. Thank you reviewers! I love you all!_**

_**Enjoy!**_

Chapter 11- Welcome Back

"Where is Joséphine?" Constance questioned, looking at Christine and back at the men who had just entered the room. She found it strange that everyone would come to the Opera to have a look about, and Joséphine would be the only one to stay back at the estate. Actually it was strange that Raoul had not insisted that Christine stay away until he gave the all clear for her to come back.

Christine sighed, "She decided to stay at home with Alexandre. He has come down with a fever."

"Oh, that is dreadful," Constance replied. "I hope it does not turn out to be anything serious."

"Neither do I," Christine said.

Constance smiled at the young woman again, "I am so happy that you have come Christine. Monsieur Reyer says that of the sopranos signed up to try out tomorrow, he knows most of them and says they would not be decent leading ladies."

The Vicomtess laughed lightly, though there was a measure of reserve in it, as though she were still not quite sure about returning to the Opera Populaire with the past still fresh in her memory. Constance knew she should have told her right then that the Phantom was alive and well, and living in the theatre somewhere; it was the only ethical thing to do for someone who had lived through so much because of him. Though she could not bring herself to say anything about it. She knew if Raoul and Philippe found out that the Phantom was still in the Opera, they would hunt for him and make sure that justice was served. And if that meant killing him, they would do just that without thinking about it. She could not allow that to happen to the Phantom… Erik.

Pity was a dreadful thing…

She found it quite funny she pitied the man in the white mask after he had done nothing but threaten her and demand things from her in the least friendly way, but it was hard not to pity him. There was something about him that just begged for it.

Christine sighed, "Well, I am certainly glad to be back. I have missed the smell of the greasepaint and the applause of the audience."

"It _will_ be very stressful for you Christine, I only wish to warn you one last time. With a new child anything can be stressful, but carrying a show on your shoulders… that is asking for a great deal pressure," Constance explained.

"I can do this…" Christine said, except it sounded more like she was trying to convince herself of that than Constance. "Really, Marguerite is young, but we plan to hire a nursemaid now that we have returned to Paris."

Constance nodded, "That will be helpful to you, I am sure. I only worry as a friend and as your _potential_ manager."

Christine laughed, brushing a strand of her curly russet hair back from her face, "And I am thankful of that worry, Constance… but as I have told you before there is another who worries too much for me already."

"It is only because he loves you Christine," she smiled and the child in her arms let out a short wail, preparing to let out a longer, much more louder one.

"Christine!" came the excited shout from the stage. They both turned to see the blonde Meg running down the side of the stage and toward Christine.

Christine turned to take the babe out of habit, but Constance only smiled, "Go say hello to her, Christine. I can manage the little one."

The young Vicomtess nodded her head and walked quickly to meet Meg halfway to the stage. Constance chuckled at the reunion as both hugged and kissed each others' cheeks. They spoke like giddy schoolgirls, like they were once again young in the corps de ballet. She had not quite taken a liking to Madame Giry and her daughter yet, but Madame Giry was a skilled teacher and strict enough to get the job done. Meg, on the other hand, while kind and polite, was like a defenseless and naïve little kitten which was the reason for her apparent limited intelligence.

"A child in your arms does become you, Constance," came the deep, breathy voice of the Comte as he whispered close to her ear.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she turned slowly around to face him, "Do you think so, Monsieur le Comte?"

"I do," he said. "Though I had planned on you holding this instead."

She glanced down at what he held in his arms. There was the small brown and white puppy she had admired a few weeks ago at the country château, yawning tiredly. Glancing back up at Philippe's eyes she chuckled, "Carrying that pup around could ruin your image, Philippe."

"And what image is that?" he questioned with a laugh.

"It is not important," she chuckled, standing on her toes to greet him with a kiss on each cheek. "Welcome back to the Opera Populaire."

"Thank you, but I can guarantee you I did not come back for the Opera Populaire," he replied. She smiled slightly, knowing a blush appeared on her cheeks.

Christine came back to them then, and wordlessly motioned to take the babe from her. Constance nodded and handed the child back to its mother, and her arms were then summarily filled with leggy dog. She laughed at the pup as it clawed its way up her chest to hold onto her dress, reaching its long neck up to lick her chin. Constance sighed and looked at Philippe, "I need to take some papers back to the managers' office… if you would like to come."

"You say that as though I would not follow you," he said, offering his arm to her.

She chuckled and shook her head, not taking his arm and leaving his side to walk to the stack of papers on the chairs she had left them on. Glancing back at him, she saw the look of confusion on his face. Constance pointed down at the papers, "You can carry those for me."

He rolled his eyes, walking swiftly to her side, bending over to pick up the paperwork. "What are you doing with all this work out here?"

"I was sitting in on the ballet auditions," she replied, nodding her head in the direction of the stairs to the right of the stage so that they could go back up to her office. He followed her along the walkways, various people recognizing Philippe, stopping to say hello to him and questioning as to why he was back at the Opera. As politely as he could manage, he told them that he was only back to see that Christine made a smooth transition back into the Opera, purposely leaving out the real reason he was there. That was the last thing she needed- for everyone to be making bets about her and the Comte de Chagny if they found out his motives to being there- but Philippe had always been a private person so she was not worried it would be spread around the theatre.

Soon they made it to the office, and she let herself in, followed by Philippe who shut the door behind him. She placed the puppy on the floor, and he set the paperwork down upon the large desk, looking around the room, searching for something. She smiled wryly and chuckled, "Over there, Philippe."

He turned his head to the side, finding the large vase of flowers. Walking over to the table, he surveyed the buds carefully and turned back to glance at her. "I had wondered if you received them."

"Yes, I did… and I will say thank you. Though, I have to ask, who helped you with the meaning of the flowers? I know that was the last thing in your long list of things to learn in your life," she replied.

With a short chuckle, he sighed, "Christine helped me select the flowers."

"And you say she had no training in society!" Constance said.

"She doesn't," he said. "Just because she knows the meaning of flowers, does not mean she is adequately trained in other manners."

Constance shook her head, "Dear Philippe, you don't really think the women of society talk about things of importance, do you? That she should know how to diplomatically end an argument? All she needs to know is how to present a tea service, how to nod her head politely while on Raoul's arm and how to interpret the meaning of inconsequential things like flowers and the movement of fans. That is all it takes for a woman to be considered civilized in polite society."

"You speak of it as though it is the bane of your existence," he said with a small smile, and walked over to her.

"It is wholly mind-dulling, and something I do not like to be a part of, but I suppose that is what the men of this age want… women who cannot think for themselves, women who readily follow the manuscripts on etiquette. Those who do, use it as a Bible and fret over it because they have nothing else interesting to do in their life," she said.

"Do you really think me one of those men, Constance?" he questioned. "If I was, I would not be here in a closed room with you. It is seen as very uncouth of an unwed man to be in the room with an unmarried woman."

"I am widowed… there are entirely different rules for that," she said.

He nodded, his right hand going up to caress her cheek. His fingers were roughened from his daily activities, that she was sure regularly involved working with his horses. They were slightly abrasive to her cheek, but in a way, it was comforting to be having him do this… showing that he _did _care, even if it was too fast for her. And yet, she felt powerless to try to stop him from doing it.

"If I am not mistaken, the same rules apply for all courting procedures. I should not even be speaking with you until Olivier 'reintroduces' us for the millionth time," he said.

She had to laugh at that. It was true. They were not supposed to be alone until their wedding night, _if_ they did adhere to etiquette, _and_ if that was where they were to go. "But no one would think twice with you in here, because I am a widow."

"True," he said, inching closer to her. His fingers brushed across her cheek again, back to push a piece of her hair behind her ear.

Taking a deep breath, she turned her head away from him. She was uncomfortable… truly she was. Not necessarily being in such close proximity to Philippe, but because of the actions he was taking toward her now that she sensed would lead to a kiss. She was entirely not prepared for that with Philippe… not physically or mentally. She had never been easily talked into things, but Philippe's presence was something that was hard to get around. He was dominating- almost too dominating for her. And as much as he swore he was not like the normal Victorian man, she knew otherwise. That was why they had never 'worked out' when they were younger and she fell in love with William instead. He had always been too stuck in polite society for her tastes.

She had to stop this between her and Philippe, especially if she could not foresee being able to give him what he wanted. She was, first and foremost a friend of hers in a personal sense and of the family, and she did not want to ruin that because she led him on to believe she loved him, or could love him. But she was held in place as he gazed down at her. His fingers slid down to her jaw line, applying ever so slight a pressure to turn her face to his again. She kept her eyes away from his, though, and said, "Philippe, what you said in your letter to me…"

"I know," he said quietly. "I know it will difficult, but I must do this now, Constance. I never was given the chance ten years ago."

She had the ability to say no then, to take on her own domineering personality and demand that he wait, but she could not. His head lowered to hers, and she sucked in a sharp breath, closing her eyes, waiting for him to finish this. Just as his lips touched hers, though, and she realized there was no shock of excitement running through her as there had been during a kiss with someone she truly loved and decided she needed to stop this before it got too out of hand, there was a loud shriek from somewhere in the theatre. If she had not been certain before, that happening right then was enough to tell her she should have not been doing this with Philippe.

Constance jerked away from him quickly, listening again for the shriek. Her heart stalled and jumped to her throat and she prayed silently that this had nothing to do with Erik seeing Christine again. There were loud, excited shouts as the high-pitched wailing continued. She backed away from Philippe, meeting his eyes and seeing the same worry in his eyes. She did not wait for him, and left quickly through the door. Running toward the stage area, she saw the scene before her. One of the young ballerinas, barely into her teens, had fallen halfway through a small portion of the stage floor. Olivier and Raoul were already there, breaking some of the rotten wood away and pulling her out along with it.

"What happened?" Constance questioned worriedly, kneeling down beside Olivier.

Raoul lifted the small girl up, and placed her over to the side on the ground. There was a long gash in her arm where blood was seeping out in a steady, but not heavy, stream. Constance moved over to the girl, looking at her arm. It was not terribly bad, but she was sure it certainly hurt. She glanced around for a piece of cloth to tie off the flow of blood, and found Olivier and Raoul already removing their long, silk cravats. People could say a lot of things about her brother and the Chagny men, but they were most definitely not helpless or unconcerned when it came to matters like this with someone 'below' them.

"What is your name, dear?" Constance questioned, looking down at the girl. Olivier moved around her and tied both his and Raoul's cravat around the upper portion of her arm to slow the flow of blood.

"Sophie," she said through a loud cry, grabbing for her arm as the makeshift tourniquet was tightened.

Constance grabbed her hand, "It will stop the blood, Sophie, do not fight them."

The girl nodded, the tears now freely moving down her face, "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Constance said. She sighed and looked around her. "What happened?"

"I was walking across, and I fell through the wood," the girl sniffled.

Raoul glanced over at Constance, "It's the trap door they use for people who need to escape downwards off the stage… you know, into Hell."

Constance nodded, and looked at Olivier, "We need to have contractors come back to look over the entire stage and make sure the wood will not do this again."

"I will make sure to do that," he said. "But first, I am going to go find the physician to come have a look at Sophie's arm."

"Of course," Constance said and stood up. "We will put you in one of the rooms to rest until he comes, if that fine Sophie?"

She nodded, "Yes, Madame."

Madame Giry appeared then with cloths in her hand to wrap about Sophie's arm. Constance where she had been for such a long while, as everyone else was standing around now watching the activity, but fetching the cloths would have not taken her that long. Had Erik been out and about? Had he caused this? Too worried about the girl to focus on it, though, she watched as Madame Giry wrapped one cloth, about the cut. Without anyone having to ask then, Philippe bent down to pick the girl up to carry her back into the living quarters and dressing rooms of the theatre.

"Will you bring warm water, Madame Giry?" Constance questioned

"Yes," the ballet mistress walked away from the stage then.

Constance led the way to one of the dressing rooms on the same floor instead of leading them up to the dancers' quarters as it would have been hard to carry the girl up the narrow iron stairs. She went into the room and quickly dusted off the chaise lounge so that Philippe could set the girl down. Sitting beside Sophie, Constance removed the cloth to look over the scrape again. Sophie winced, more tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you, Sophie, but I am looking for any splinters of wood that I can take care of without the physician," she said.

"I understand," Sophie whimpered.

Taking her time to look over the wound in the dim light of the gas lamp in the room, she found a few large splinters of the rotten wood and pulled them out quickly to Sophie's pained cry. After the first one was removed, however, Sophie was remarkably courageous as the others were taken care of. Philippe, in the meanwhile, had removed his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to the girl.

"Thank you, Monsieur," Sophie said quietly, almost shyly as she gazed up at Philippe.

Constance recognized that look very well… looking up at the handsome face of any man while still fresh into the teen years of a girl's life was quite blush-provoking. She chuckled, "Sophie, this is the Comte Philippe de Chagny."

Madame Giry arrived then with the water in a porcelain pitcher and bowl, both Christine and Meg following close behind, seemingly ready to help despite Christine's obvious impediment of Marguerite. Philippe smiled pleasantly, placing his hand on Constance's shoulder with a soft squeeze, "I think you have enough help now, I'm off to find my brother."

"He is still trying to make sense of how the girl fell through the floor," Christine replied, adjusting the child in her arms. Philippe nodded and disappeared quickly. Constance watched him go before turning back to look at the others in the room, and let a heavy sigh escape her lips.

_Welcome back to the Opera indeed._


	12. Pity

_**A/N: Make sure to check out chapter 11 if you missed it. Some people said that chapter 11 was missing when they went to look for it when I updated on Sunday 2/13/05. It's this site being odd again, so this is just a friendly note to remind you to read the previous chapter… some important things in there. And remember to review!**_

_**Please note that the link to my homepage in the bio is a link to my PotO Yahoo group created for fictional person and real person fan fiction, as well as any other form of art you wish. Come and join!**_

**_Thanks to the reviewers! And to Elena for e-mailing me about translating this story into Russian. It is an honor that you would want to translate it to add it to your site._**

**_All I have to say is that it's amazing anyone in the Victorian era got anything done. There was a rule for everything which I can only imagine took a great deal of time to learn and practice._**

Chapter 12- Pity

She turned to Giry and placed a clean cloth into the water, taking it and dabbing away carefully at Sophie's arm. As she cleaned away the blood, she found that the wound was not nearly as bad as she originally thought, but then she was no doctor, so she would wait for one to come and look at it. Constance looked at Sophie again, "I am sure you did not expect this to happen today."

Sophie giggled lightly, "No, Madame, I did not."

"Should we send someone to let your parents know you are here and what happened?" she questioned, putting the cloth back into the bowl and waving Giry away from her.

"No Madame," Sophie said quickly.

"Are you sure of that?" Constance questioned, growing suspicious of the speed at which Sophie had spoken out against that action.

Sophie looked away from her then, "I am sure."

"We should really send someone, Sophie, dear. They will want to know," she pressed on.

Sophie let out a choked sniffle and then said, "They do not know I am here, Madame."

"Sophie…" Constance began, realizing she was sounding much too much like her mother for her own good. When she would lie about things as a child, her mother always gave that certain sort of displeased voice, knowing that the entire truth was not being spoken. She had to chuckle at herself, though. For so long she swore she would not be her mother when and if she had children, but it was the famous mothers' curse she could not get around. She glanced up at the other women in the room, "Will you please leave us alone, ladies?"

No one replied as they vacated the room and shut the door behind them. She turned back to the young girl, looking down at her for a long while, trying to decide what she should say about this. Constance sighed and busied herself with loosening the cravat tourniquet slightly to see if the wound would still bleed. "It was required that they give you permission to audition."

"I know, but I wanted to try out so badly," Sophie said. "They would not let me."

"You should listen to you parents, Sophie," she said softly. "If you are selected for the corps de ballet, you will have to tell them. What will you do then?"

"I don't know," she replied. "You see, I live with my uncle and aunt… my mother died a few days after I was born, and Father died from consumption when I was only five."

Constance sighed, "The last thing I want is for Madame Giry to select you for the corps de ballet, and then for you not to be able to fill your spot because of your uncle and aunt."

Sophie was silent, looking up at her with large eyes, on the verge of crying again. No, the last thing Constance wanted was a girl that cried this often over things like this, though she did understand what it was like to want to do something contradictory to what your parents thought. The girl sniffled, "I was hoping that someone would talk to them."

Constance shook her head disappointedly, deciding that she needed to stay firm, "I will speak with your uncle and aunt if you are accepted into the ballet, but I cannot promise you that me speaking with them will help your position at all."

"I understand," she said.

The door opened then, Olivier coming in followed by the doctor with his bag of medicines and small contraptions. Constance stood from her spot and left the men in the room with Sophie, to go see to the other damage done to the others in the Opera. As she walked by a few of the new stagehands, she heard them whispering about the Opera Ghost and a curse that now rested upon the entire Opera. She brushed off the thought of it, telling herself it was not Erik. It could not be Erik. He had promised to not do anything to Christine and Raoul upon their return, and she had believed him. That was one thing about him… she felt she could believe him because he did not strike her as the type of person to go back on his words whether they were promises for good things, or for bad.

But he had kept his promise, he did nothing to Christine or Raoul. Did he see them together and become so angered with it, he could not control his anger?

No, he would not.

He could not have done that… it was only rotten wood.

But then she could not possibly know that with any level of certainty.

Trying to push past those thoughts, she made it to her office, opening the door to find Raoul and Philippe there sitting in both of the straight back chairs facing her desk, their conversation stopping almost instantly as she entered. They both stood up quickly, out of force of habit for always standing when a lady enters or leaves a room. The pup she had all but forgotten in the excitement of the past hour clamored loudly, toddling up to her, it's long legs getting tangled beneath it causing it to stumble quite ungracefully. She laughed at the pitiful creature and bent down to pick him up after he had rolled under her skirts and started pulling at the fabric with its teeth.

"We'll have to think of a good name for you, my good sir," she said to the pup as it yelped and licked her face in acknowledgement of what she had said.

"Is the child well?" Raoul questioned.

"She will be fine. It's not as horrible as it seemed," Constance said, nodding to both of them and walked around behind the desk. "I am sure the doctor will give her a bit of morphine and send her on her way."

She sat down, leaving the pup in her lap, waiting for both Chagny men to sit. They each remained silent as she settled herself, and well after that, looking at her as though they were trying to understand something. Growing tired of their silence, she glanced at each of them pointedly, "What do you wish to speak with me about?"

Philippe shifted in his seat, unfolding a piece of paper in his hands and reaching across the desk to set it down in front of her. Making out the black-lined envelope and red seal of a death's-head, she felt all blood drain from her face and her heart stop. Trying her best to not show any sign that she was uncomfortable with what they had placed in front of her, Constance cleared her throat and met each pair of blue eyes again. "So?"

"Do not play ignorant, Constance," Philippe said. "I found it in your rubbish bin."

"You were searching through my rubbish?" she exclaimed, hoping to sound like she was truly incensed by it. And really, she was if that was the truth.

Philippe and Raoul both gave her nearly identical glares, and Philippe said, "Tell me now, if I need to worry about this."

"You need not worry," she replied. With slightly trembling fingers, she reached for the envelope and looked at how it was addressed. It was labeled: _To the new managers_. When she had received the first letter from Erik, she had not even taken the time to look at that… and she was glad her name was in no way written on it. "While I was cleaning out the desk, I came across the letters sent to Messieurs André and Firmin. Did you bother to look through all of the trash for the others?"

"No," Philippe shook his head, but continued to gaze at her as though he knew exactly what was going on.

Raoul sighed heavily, "If that _thing_ is still here, tell me now so that I may take my family far from this place… I knew this was a bad decision."

"Raoul, please," Constance said as evenly as she could manage, belying her true knowledge of the matter. As far as she was concerned, to make the Opera once again profitable, they needed Christine there as leading soprano. It was true she had not yet heard her sing or seen her act, but Reyer had said she was superbly talented regardless of her past. They needed her to take over the position again, with or without Erik there, and Constance had every intention of stretching the truth to benefit her own and her brother's interest in the Opera.

And it was her right to do that, as long as she secretly kept an eye on the machinations of the man living in the cellars of the Opera.

"Everything is fine. The Phantom is not here in this Opera," she lied, meeting Raoul's eyes and holding them for a long while.

She heard Philippe heave his own sigh and glanced at him. He grumbled lowly, "Raoul, I would like to speak with Constance alone."

Respecting his elder brother's wishes, Raoul nodded his head and left the room, shutting the door tightly. Constance watched him go, wondering what Philippe could possibly need to say that could not be said in front of his brother. She sighed, the pup in her lap nipping at her hand, so she placed it back on the ground before looking at Philippe. He stood up and paced the length of the room a bit, turning to her finally, and saying, "You never were a good liar, Constance."

"What are you talking about?" she questioned, truly getting better by the moment with her acting… appearing quite offended with the insinuations being made.

"You know what I am talking about," he said, deadly serious. "You promised me with the first occurrence of something you would leave."

She scoffed and shook her head, "There is nothing here, Philippe. Believe me! Nothing has _occurred_, I promise you that. This letter is exactly what I said it was… you must forgive me for sounding disjointed in my speaking, my mind is going in several different directions right at the moment with all of the happenings today."

"But I saw the fright and knowledge in your eyes as you reached for the envelope, Constance. I am very good at picking up when someone is lying to me," he said. "From years of playing too many card games."

"You cannot believe that I would be worried about anything that had to do with these vile notes and the Phantom? With all the stories I have heard, of course I am frightened… and seeing that wax seal is no better. It's like seeing your blue family crest on the letter you sent with the flowers… I experienced a great feeling of delight when I saw that. I experience worry and grief when I see that thing," she tried her hardest to explain, and delved into something she had not intended upon, and that was feigning the degree of her fondness for him to try, in a vain attempt, to get him focused on other things.

He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, complete with his trademark of clenching his jaw in anger. "Constance, I _can_ believe that, but only slightly. Never has Constance the Calm ever balked at something as seemingly interest provoking as this. If it were really you speaking, you would be excited for the prospect and trying to figure out the mystery."

She had not planned on him remembering that, and it did hurt her case terribly.

"There is something you are not telling me," he said.

As a last ditch effort, she walked over to him and placed her hands upon his arms. His tenseness diminished at the touch, and he lowered his arms to place his hands upon her cinched waist. Looking down at her, she saw the obvious concern in his eyes, but the cloud was quickly thinning as he pulled her against his body. This was exactly the reaction she had wanted, but she felt rather unclean doing it. She was literally selling herself to make this man forget what he was originally so worried about… in essence she was no better than the prostitutes at any of the many discreet brothels in Paris.

But she had to protect her own interests, her brother's interests and that of Erik's interests. Granted she knew next nothing about him, but she knew what would happen if one of the Chagnys' caught up with him… somehow. They would most definitely not even have a second thought to killing him on the spot… and she had, in the two meetings they had, combined with all the stories, had taken pity on the poor soul. Like Christine had said she had done.

Unfortunately, though, Philippe _did_ know her too well and had remembered everything from their time together. After resuming the kiss in which he had been so horribly interrupted from completion, taking his fill of her lips as she reciprocated as ardently as she could manage, he stepped back slightly and looked down at her. "And never does Constance de Louvois ever give into a man that easily."

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, turning her head away from him.

"As much as I do enjoy your willingness and the loveliness of you lips against mine, I am intelligent enough to know when a woman is trying to change my mind in some way, especially when it comes from a woman who stakes her entire reputation on strong will." He said with a small sigh, "I am not that horribly dense, Constance. Besides, you were brought up and taught better than that."

"Philippe, there is nothing evil in this Opera," she said, meeting his eyes, deciding not to press further on with her other plan. She was not capable of really following through with this, even if Philippe had not realized what she was doing. William still weighed heavily in her mind, and she was sure he would never leave, and there was no way she would be able to see past it to give the Comte the undivided attention she would have to possess for this action.

He looked at her for what seemed like an eternity and he nodded his head, "For the sake of showing you that I trust you, I will believe you, but if I find one more thing that would lead me to believe that _thing_ is here, I will not hesitate to tell Olivier and have you removed from the Opera for your own safety."

Constance nodded her head. It was better than nothing, she supposed. "You won't go telling Olivier, will you? He worries terribly about me, and there is nothing to worry about here."

"No, I will not. Not yet at least," he responded.

She sighed, "Philippe, do you not think, even if the Opera Ghost was still here, alive and well, he would have learned his lesson already? And doesn't he deserve a bit of your pity? He let Christine and Raoul go… you cannot forget that."

"No creature that lives his life in torment and murder is deserving of anyone's pity, Constance. Not even if it was my brother and his wife he freed from sure death," he said.

She looked away from him, glancing down at his chest instead of his eyes. That was where they differed in ideals. Just because a man committed various transgressions, obviously over his intense jealousy for a woman he too loved, even if they involved murder, she did not consider him yet deserving of a meeting with a guillotine. There had to be some goodness in Erik's heart if he could love someone as he had supposedly loved Christine. Why could people not think that?

His chest moved slowly with each breath, but he paced his fingers beneath her chin to lift her eyes to him, "May I have a proper kiss without an agenda now?"

Constance swallowed harshly and nodded her head, and soon his lips were over hers, massaging ever so gently, but gradually increasing the intensity to his liking. The door to the office, though, flung open with no great ceremony or warning, and it took a good few minutes for that to register in Philippe's mind, though in her mind it registered almost immediately. Philippe backed away quickly to the sound of the nearly disappointed clearing of Olivier's throat, and she glanced toward the ground to hide her blush. Even though she had not been entirely into the sign of affection, mind and body, she still found it quite embarrassing to be caught like they were.

She caught both Raoul's and Olivier's amused smile, but Olivier stopped smiling rather quickly, "What is this I hear about a note?"

Now she understood why Philippe clenched his jaw all the time… to keep from saying anything bad… and that was exactly what she wanted to do to Raoul at the moment- berate him until he apologized profusely. Really, this day was not turning out to be her day. Surprisingly, though, Philippe intercepted the comment, "It is nothing, Olivier. Only a misunderstanding. Constance says she cleaned out the desk and found the letters for André and Firmin. Correct?"

"Yes," she nodded.

Olivier gave them a skeptical look, but his lips curled into a small smile, "She has already got you wrapped about her little finger, does she?"

Oh how she hated the talk between men, acting like women were such insignificant, but beguiling creatures willing to use their wiles to their advantage. Though she had to remind herself that she had done just that a few moments earlier.

Philippe laughed and shook his head, glancing at her quickly, "Trust me, if there was anything wrong, I would be the first to carry her off this property."

"You will not be carrying me anywhere, Monsieur le Comte, I can walk if I want," she said, shooting him a glare and walking back around to her desk.

The puppy yipped at the strangers that had entered the room, and Olivier must have laughed at something he did, and he questioned, "So, between your obvious scandalous actions in here, have you decided on a name yet for this whelp? Alexandre will most definitely fall in love with it."

"I thought I would name it Louis the Second," she replied, not looking up at them.

"As long as when you get to Louis the Sixteenth you don't order a beheading," Olivier said.

She chuckled and glanced up at them, "Or would Napoleon be more apt a name for the dog? Or Robespierre?"

"You do have a death wish in this country, don't you?" Philippe questioned with a bit of humor in his voice.

"Napoleon would not work though, because the dog will be too tall," she said, causing them to laugh.

Thank goodness for being able to avert a crisis situation, though she knew they would continue discussing the note without her at another time. She sighed and looked up at them again, trying to will them to leave the room with her mind… anything to get Raoul out of the room. He was most definitely not her preferred person to be in the same room with at the moment, especially if he was going to be this highly strung over the matter. Her pity for Christine and the probable overprotective nature of her husband was now alive and well, if it had not doubled since Raoul came bursting back into the room. How could Christine really stand it? Perhaps it was their true, undying love.

Olivier took the hint, "We are headed out then, Constance. Will you join us?"

"No, I still need to speak with Madame Giry about the corps de ballet," she said. "I will be home soon, though."

"We shall wait dinner on you, then," Olivier replied as each of the men filed out of the room and Philippe closed the door behind him.

She listened to their voices diminishing, meeting up with Christine and then completely silencing as they left the building. Constance fell back into her chair and let out a long, heavy breath of relief; she closed her eyes and praised herself for a well averted disaster.

"That was quite a dance you just did to get around those questions," said the smooth, mocking tenor voice from the other side of the room. "Perhaps you should be in the ballet."


	13. Skeletons In The Closet

**_A/N: Barefootadvocat- Constance is slightly unconventional for her time period, but that is all on purpose… for the Susan B. Anthonys of that time and place. I know there were some out there, especially after the French revolution. I suppose when I wrote her character sketch I was in a feminist mood… blame it on my women's studies course._**

**_A huge thank you to all of those reading and enjoying this! Thank you reviewers… you know that even the simplest form of a review always spurs me to writing more. I have taken the last couple of days (why it's been a few since I updated last) to completely plan out the rest of the story. I had a rough outline before, but now that I've gotten the shell of the story written, I was able to sit and brainstorm all the intricate details. As I write it, I know I won't be disappointed. Hopefully you won't either. Lots of 'fun' more happenings coming your way!_**

_**Enjoy!**_

Chapter 13- Skeletons In The Closet

For the first time, upon hearing his voice and not having any inkling to his entrance into the room, she did not jump. Truthfully, after today, nothing was going to surprise her; from the Chagnys' making their grand entrance, to Philippe and his sudden forwardness about exactly what he wanted, to Sophie the ballerina falling through rotten wood she thought was repaired while the contractors where there, and finally to dodging the inquisition she received from Philippe and Raoul concerning the note. It had been a long, difficult day before that, but now she was truly in a numb state, not really caring what happened. She was just too tired to care. And now it seemed like the day was going to get infinitely longer, especially since Erik seemed to like to instigate arguments.

She rested her head back on her chair, and glanced quickly at him where he stood across the room, "You are lucky I am able to do that dance… lest we forget I could have easily alerted them to your presence in the Opera."

It was an empty threat, though. She would never tell them for her own reasons.

That seemed to silence him quite sufficiently as he took that in and thought about it, but he walked across the room and set himself into the chair Philippe had vacated some time ago. "I suppose you expect me to thank you profusely for not alerting them?"

"No, Monsieur, I do not expect to hear your thanks anytime soon," she replied indignantly and met his eyes.

His left brow rose in question, "There is no need to get testy, Madame. Unless, of course, you are only voicing your chagrin over a certain Chagny brother to me in a less than appealing way. That, I could at least understand."

"It is not just one Chagny brother I am fed up with," she spoke, sitting up in her seat like a proper lady. She sighed, "You need to leave, I am to have a meeting with Madame Giry in a few moments about the corps de ballet."

"Numbers three, seven, and fifteen need to be cut," he said in a matter-of-fact attitude.

Constance chuckled sarcastically, "My, my, you do live up to your reputation of being a genius. You even know the fine art of ballet. I am impressed."

Erik balked, taking on a defensive approach now, though she was not naïve to believe that it was not being done in complete patronization. He adjusted his coat beneath his cloak and looked at her, "Do not lash out at me because you are angry that you nearly had to sell yourself to the Comte for my protection. I did not ask you to save me, you did not have to act like you did… why did you do it?"

She glared at him, "I do not know why! But your current demeanor is certainly showing me I should have told them you were in the Opera."

"Perhaps you should have, Constance. I can only be trouble to you," he said point-blank, with a bit of his own animosity hidden within his tone. "It would rid you of many problems."

"What do you mean by that, Monsieur?" she questioned, immediately taking that to mean that he had many sinister plans afoot. "Did you have anything to do with the trap door?"

He shrugged his shoulders and gazed off to the side nonchalantly, thoroughly angering her to the highest possible level. "Why should I tell you, if you will not tell me why you protected me? Perhaps it is because you fear me. Or because you wish to blackmail me to your own benefit."

"Please, sir, do not think so highly of yourself," she retorted. Constance stood up and placed her hands on the desk, leaning over her arms to gaze down at him. "Did you have anything to do with the trap door? It is a simple question."

"And so is the answer to why you feel you should protect me," he said.

Staring at him closely, a heavy tension spread between them, neither daring to back down to be the first to answer. He stood up, so that she could not look down at him, but maintained his intense eye contact as he did so, moving closely to the desk. Knowing that he was trying to intimidate her, she only solidified her resolve against anything that he was going to do. She was not going to back down to this man. Rarely did she do it for other men, so why should she start with him?

She scoffed and stepped back from her position, shaking her head. "This is pointless. Neither of us is going to give into the other."

"You have a firmer disposition than I originally thought," he replied. "I will have to remember this."

"Oh you have no idea, Monsieur, how stubborn I can be," she said in aggravation.

He grunted in a sort of short laugh, his visible brow raising in amusement, "Then we have something in common, good Madame."

Constance sighed heavily, feeling the severe pressure of a headache forming behind her eyes. Really, she was quickly getting tired of this circular talking. It was clear to her that he was only trying to bait her to give into his need for control of this, 'his' Opera, or at least confuse her so horribly that it would be simple for him to get what he wanted without her realizing she let her mouth slip. "Did you have anything to do with the trap door? If you do not answer me, you do not receive any money."

"You are going back on your promise, Madame Constance? For me to answer a question about something that should not really worry you?" he questioned, soundly vaguely hurt, but his harsh, pitiless eyes hid it extremely well. Or maybe it was just such a normal occurrence to him, that it did not move him much.

"If I am?" she questioned.

"Then the Vicomte and Vicomtess are fair game," he threatened. "Your life would be a living Hell if I wished it."

"You wouldn't dare," she said lowly.

Erik only continued affording her the cold stare he had been giving before, waiting for her to make a decision. A shiver traveled down her spine, and she got the odd sensation that he was not jesting in any degree. He meant it when he said he would see to it they would all regret the day she did not give into his demands, or at least honor her promises. She prepared to answer him, though he stopped her suddenly by placing a hand in her face to silence her. Letting out a long sigh, he walked away from her and began to fiddle with flowers in the rotunda. Turning back to her, he said, "No, I had nothing to do with the trap door. I was only walking beneath it when the girl fell through. Your carpenters must have thought it was nothing to worry about and did not fix it."

"You are telling me the whole truth?" she questioned.

"Yes," he said definitely.

"Then why did you make it seem like you had everything to do with it?" Constance questioned.

He did not answer her and cleared his throat, "I have done something for you. Now it is your turn to tell me why you said those things to keep them away."

She laughed at him and how he made this slightly pleasant trade of information seem like such a novel idea. Had he always gotten what he wanted by force? Or never gotten what he wanted? Had everyone in his life taken everything from him without any thanks in return? That could be possible in the case of Christine. Had she ever thanked him for the gift he supposedly helped her develop?

"I have two reasons," she said, giving into him. "The first is that I believe you are no longer a harm to this Opera and because I pity you."

"I do not need your pity," he replied bitterly. "That is all I have ever had my entire life- other people's pity and their disgust…"

"Then I will not pity you," Constance said. "Because I do not know what I pity about you… is it because of the fact that you must hide away due to something you cannot control, or is it because you lost Christine, your one true love?"

His body froze in place at the mention of Christine, and she could feel his demeanor change from bitter to angry. Erik turned to her, "You have no idea what it is like to lose one you love. You could not pity me."

She rolled her eyes, "And I suppose losing a husband I loved dearly does not meet those requirements? Have you really not noticed, especially by that way I signed the letter I left for you, that I am not with my husband?"

Erik did not reply, and made no move to leave the room, he only stood looking closely at her, as though the thought had crossed his mind, but never really implanted in his mind. Was he that selfish?

"Now that you can see you are not the only one who is hurt and in pain here," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose again and sitting down in her chair, "Would you like to know the second reason as to why I protected you."

"By all means," he replied, urging her on.

"If my brother or the Chagnys found out about you, they would keep me from ever coming back here, thinking that _I_ need to be protected from everything. But to be truthful, this is the first thing… this Opera, in the past two and a half years, that I felt I needed to live for. My life suddenly had purpose again when Olivier asked me about taking the unconventional role of society women and helping him with it. Truly, after your husband dies and you are a society woman, and are my age, there are very few men who would look your way. My life was over… no children, no claim to the Duchy that my husband would have held if he had not passed on. I had nothing to live for until I found the Opera," she said, letting out a cleansing breath.

Now that she thought about it, it really was the first time she admitted it to herself as well. She held such a connection to this place already, with such a desire to see it succeed, because it was what she had left to live for… it was, in essence, taking the place of her husband as the sole thing in her life she cared about. It was her child. And anything on the inside of this magnificent structure was also hers to see to its greatest potential.

Even if that meant being empathetic to a strange mask-clad, cloak-wearing man that had a troubled past, and probably a troubled future.

"Except the wealthy Comte is now raining upon you his affections," Erik said. "So that bit about having nothing for you to live for is all folly… ludicrous! Surely he will ask you to marry him. Despite your supposed age, you are still pleasant to look at."

He did not seem to care about her admittance as much as she did. Perhaps he did not read that deeply into it. Constance sighed irritably, "I do not wish to discuss the Comte with you, or my pleasantness to look at. Why are you here? Come to irritate me?"

"I did not leave with the money at our last meeting," he said.

"Oh," she said, just realizing that fact. "I will have some for you tomorrow if we may hold true to the original promise."

"Some of it, Madame?" he questioned. "I thought I would receive all of it."

Constance glared at him, "Be thankful you are getting anything, Monsieur."

She realized she was treating him like a child… but he just seemed to bring that side out of her. The way he acted was very much like a child who had not had much social training or at least exposure to society, which was expected considering that he lived in the cellars of the Opera, but she thought that perhaps he would have been a little more acclimated to the world if he had spent time on the outside before finding the Opera.

"If I were to give you such a large sum of twenty thousand francs, then it would raise some brows," she said. "Olivier takes care of all business outside of this Opera, for obvious reasons that most would not believe me capable of it myself, and I am sure the banks would question him as to why I needed so much money at once."

"Then how do you think you will get by paying the entire amount, even in small amounts?" he questioned.

"Then I will not pay you the full sum," she said, though she knew it would only anger him some more.

"Madame…" he began, but stopped.

Constance sighed, "Really, Monsieur, what in the world would you need twenty thousand francs a month for? I do not even spend that on all my needs in a month."

"What concern is it to you what I spend my money on?" he questioned.

"It is my money," she said.

He smirked, "It is your brother's money."

Constance rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I will give you five hundred francs tomorrow, when my secretary is able to exchange a check for me. That is more than enough for food for one person and many nice articles of clothing."

"What of the rest?" he questioned.

"When you require money, you will let me know, and I will pay it out to you," she replied.

He seemed as though he would not relent, but he let out a disgruntled sigh, his chest heaving, "You like to keep people on a short leash."

"Then we have a deal?" she questioned.

"Against my better judgment," he said. "I shall be in my box tomorrow for the singing auditions, and when I come to your office afterward I shall give you my opinions on the singers and expect my money. If you do not have it, then all deals are off."

Constance accepted his threat, knowing she would not have anything to worry about as she planned to give him his money, and nodded her head. It was only luck that he had accepted this new arrangement, but she was glad he had. This way, she could require that he come to her office at least once a month to retrieve funds instead of her just leaving a predetermined sum of money for him to find, therefore allowing her to monitor his whereabouts and what was happening with him. And if he did not come to the main areas of the Opera, she would know something foul was afoot. Yes, this was a very good plan.

She sighed, "But I have one more question… when you do get the money, how do you go about leaving the Opera for food and your other needs?"

"I have my ways, Madame," he said and moved toward the rotunda and the secret exit again.

"I should like to know, one of these days," she said.

He did not turn around, but stopped halfway through the passage, "You already know too much."

Constance chuckled lightly, feeling slightly better now that she had spent a bit more time with this strange man… despite the fact that the entire time was spent trying to get the other so irritated that they could not stop from relaying something they should not. He started again and began to pull the paneling shut, and she called out, "Until tomorrow, Erik."

He stopped after she said his name, but he said nothing, only remaining still for a few long moments before totally closing off the passage.

She shook her head, only allowed a short moment to diffuse her mind from that rather peculiar meeting, when the sound of a firm knock at the closed door met her ears. Another sigh found her lips, and she sat up straight, positioning herself to at least look presentable to the ballet mistress. When they had spoken for the first time about the job open at the Opera, Giry had been rather brusque with her, and Constance had almost not hired her back. It seemed that she was a harsh woman, like the kind you would get at a finishing school beating manners and womanly skills into your head before you could leave her clutches. Constance supposed, though, that was good thing to have in a teacher if she projected that to her ballet teachings… she just hoped that the woman would warm up to her so that their conversations were not always so short.

But Constance made sure to be as proper as possible around her, because Giry did remind too much of one of her governess when she was younger.

"Yes?" she called.

"It is Madame Giry," the voice came.

"Please, come in," Constance said, brushing a piece of hair back from her face. The severe woman entered the room, and walked quickly to the chairs across from Constance. She took a breath as she seated herself comfortably in the seat, propping her cane up against the desk and adjusting her knee to her liking. Constance had not noticed how the injury from her years of her ballet dancing had affected her so much before, but that was probably because Giry had been on her feet the entire day.

Giry smiled slightly, and placed a paper on the desk with the names and numbers of the girls she had auditioned this afternoon, their male dancers having already auditioned and been accepted the previous day. Constance picked up the list, and saw crosses through numbers three, seven and fifteen. A shiver traveled down her spine, as she recalled the numbers Erik had given her. Did he really know ballet that well? Was he tat knowledgeable in everything having to do with the Opera? Perhaps she should give him more credit… and ask for more of his help.

"I would like the keep the girls from that list," Giry said.

"That is perfectly fine," Constance said. "I wouldn't know a pirouette from a plié, so I trust your expertise in the area."

Giry nodded her head, "I wished to ask you about Sophie, Madame. Are you to speak with her guardians?"

"I will speak with them if she can get them here," Constance replied. "Will it hurt your numbers terribly if she cannot do it?"

"No, we should still have enough," Giry said.

Constance nodded and glanced over the list again, though it meant little to her, "Very well. Thank you, Madame, that'll be all."

Giry stood and gathered her things again, glancing about the room but she stopped and looked at Constance, "Madame, you have received a note?"

She glanced down at the desk, having completely forgotten the envelope when Erik left. "Oh, it is nothing…"

"Do not worry," Giry said. "The secret is safe with me, regardless of my better judgment."

"What do you mean by that?" Constance questioned.

The ballet mistress sighed, "You have heard the stories, so you know what happened. But what you do not know is that it was I who helped him escape from the traveling show he was with, and brought him down to the cellars to live. I almost feel responsible for what happened to Christine… I did not try to stop him… but over the years of sheltering him as a mother would, I began to see him as more and more of a child to me. I love him as though he were my own son, but that does not excuse what he did and that I did nothing about it."

Constance listened, taking all of this in, "Madame, we all have our skeletons that we wish we could have done something different about. I do not hold you at fault, if that is your reason for telling me this."

"I only tell you now, because I think you should know," she said with a sigh. "You have been in correspondence with him?"

"I have," Constance said. "He wrote to me, telling me about what he expects for the theatre. I was to ask you and Reyer to come back, and leave him money."

"That sounds like Erik," Giry said. "And what is your course of action?"

Constance smiled, "I believe he and I have reached a mutual understanding and have created a realistic agreement between both parties. Are you the one who would go fetch things for him when you were here in the Opera?"

"I was, but it stopped when Meg and I left for Lyon after the chandelier crash," Giry said. "I suppose it could begin again, I do not know. We have not yet spoken since then."

"Very well," Constance said. "That is all… if anything happens though, like things that could bring you to believe he could repeat what he did with Christine, you will let me know, won't you?"

Giry nodded her head and walked toward the door, "I will not make that mistake again, Madame."

Constance watched the mistress leave, and heaved a sigh of relief. Now there were more mysteries she would need to unravel when the setting provided it from Madame Giry, but for now, she was going to leave for home and hope to forget about her long, difficult day.


	14. Auditions

**_A/N: SO sorry about the wait… all of my professors decided this was the week they were going to hold huge exams! A reminder that combining all different forms and histories of Erik._**

_**Thank you reviewers! Enjoy!**_

Chapter 14- Auditions

He moved through the passages, up toward the main theatre for the singing auditions the next morning, still unhappy at how the conversation with Constance had gone the previous afternoon. The typical anger that ruled his life was not an issue at all when he spoke with her, even though there had been a few things she had said, like the comment about pitying him because of Christine, that had done a sufficient job of maddening him. It was the fact that he could not seem to gain an upper hand in any of their discussions.

Constance was in a league all her own.

Never had he met such a vexing woman before! No matter how hard he tried, she would not break. He had underestimated the woman's stubbornness. It seemed to get worse very time he was forced to speak with her. She had the ability to talk her way around things, and making him think things he had no intention of thinking about his life. By now, he would have placed enough fear and doubt in the minds of his managers to give him what he required!

But she did have the most foul mood if things did not go her way…

Their attitudes were too much alike for their own good, especially if they were going to butt heads every single time he came to her or sent her a note detailing exactly what he required.

He still could not believe she had talked her way around giving him the twenty thousand francs he asked for. It was true that it would raise some questions from her brother if she were to take the entire sum of money out, or even over the period of a month taking that money out. He had never had to deal with someone else entirely controlling the outflow of money- all the managers before took care of it themselves- and that was as well as the fact that the brother would not allow her to continue working in the Opera if he knew that the 'dreaded' Opera Ghost was still there. And he had to admit, with some irritation, that he did not need all that money… but it was one way he could control the activities of the Opera and managers. Except it had been nice to have that sum of money, as he had saved much beforehand which had allowed him to live well after he was forced to leave the Opera. If something like that were to happen again, he would have no saved money.

He needed the total stipend of twenty thousand francs.

So he would suffice with what he could get for now, like he had done for the past few years, until he could think of some other way to change her mind to his benefit. He was more intelligent than he after all… there had to be a way… he just had not figured it out yet.

Stepping out of the paneling into his box, he moved carefully in the shadows, looking down into the auditorium to find Constance sitting beside Reyer a few rows back from center stage. There were a few people- probably the heads of the certain departments of the Opera, and some of the soon-to-be auditioned- sitting about listening into the try-outs for the remaining spots in the orchestra that had only begun a short time ago. Henoticed the list the previous day during his movements about the theatre, when he was observing what was being done and to make sure it was satisfactory to him, and he noticed that the first order of business to audition two more pianists after the previous day's disaster of pianists. Which would then lead them to bass singers, all the way up to sopranos later in the day.

A full day to agonize over hearing Christine sing again in his Opera, with a gift he helped her realize. What a painful day it would be.

At least Carlotta would not be there.

He sat in the shadows of his box, watching as Reyer finally found a decent pianist and continued on through the bass singers. The men who were auditioning were from every walk of life he could imagine: some Italian, some French… Spaniards, Germans… there was even one man who sounded much like a Russian (though he could not be sure about that, as he had little contact with the Russians), but not one of them stood out as a great singer. It was true, bass parts were not usually the most prevalent parts in any Opera, but they were still very needed for a well balanced group. He supposed, though, that they would suffice as long as they could sing in the different languages.

There was no substituting that knowledge of being able to sing in different languages, but he often wondered if any of the foreigners even knew what they were singing. They knew general stage direction, naturally, so they could act their parts, but did they really understand the true depth to each of the operas they performed? It seemed that they lacked the passion behind their singing of the foreign words, which was a good indicator that they really did not have the strong a connection with what they were performing.

That was the reason why he, personally, had spent much of his life reading every manuscript he could on foreign languages. He decided early on that since he loved the Opera so much, and that he would reside there in the cellars, he should put forth a great effort so that he would at least be able to know what was going on in each scene of every Opera. What had started as a true thirst for knowledge for learning the languages and the notes accompanied to the words, fed his inspiration in writing his own music that had become such a passion of his that it had finally led him to his own Pandora's Box… Mademoiselle Christine Daaé.

Or should he think of her as Vicomtess Christine de Chagny now?

She would never be Christine de Chagny in his mind… he would never accept the fact that she was gone because he had weakened and let her go. She was meant to be his and his alone, and she knew that, no matter how much she appeared to love that fop. He growled to himself and tried to shake the image of her still fresh in his head from the previous day. That was not important now; she was not important now. What was important now was that he was alive, and he could again thrive off the music this Opera created, even if it would be hindered by the Chagnys' presence.

The group of awaiting baritones were then given a few minutes to warm up before their judging commenced. Some of these men were better than the last bunch, but he grew disheartened by the true lack of enthusiasm. Perhaps they would be better in performance mode, but he was worried for the Opera if this what they had to choose from for leading parts. He thought for a moment that he was being too harsh and expected too much from the singers, but he was well aware there was talent somewhere in the world, even if they were not taught by him.

A mediocre English baritone left after singing his prepared piece and doing a few bars of the sight reading piece Reyer requested from _Don Giovanni_, from the predetermined list passed out earlier that day, with hardly a thank you from Reyer. The pianist, however, was doing a splendid job of keeping up with the sight reading better than he imagined, but then he was an older gentleman and probably had played many of these pieces at least once before in concert. There was a lull in the auditions as apparently one of the baritones who was supposed to be there, had not shown up for his appointed time. He glanced down at Reyer and Constance, who were talking quietly about something having to do with the singers.

Constance nodded her head and stood up, "We'll commence with the next baritone audition since Monsieur Chaffee has not shown up."

Reyer handed her a piece of paper, and she called out, "Señor Gabriel de la Vega please."

Erik shifted his eyes about the auditorium, finding the Spanish baritone as he stood from his seat and flattened out his waistcoat and adjusted the cravat about his neck. If there was a better person who could play a Don Juan, Erik could not imagine it… even if he was the wrong voice part. When he first saw the baritone that day coming from Constance's office, he saw the resemblance of the character, but now as he glided effortlessly across the aisle up toward the stage, it was certain that he was very arrogant and full of himself, and probably quite the womanizer as well.

"What will you be singing for us today, Señor?" Reyer questioned.

"I sing 'Era la notte' from _Othello_," the baritone announced. A few of the others still sitting in on the audition after their own rolled their eyes as they heard that proclaimed, as it had been the song they chose. They must have all thought their renditions of the song were the best.

And then the baritone sang, and Erik found himself utterly surprised at what had come out of the man's mouth. He had expected this Vega man to be like a puffed up Carlotta in male form… but this Spaniard was a superb singer and a wonderful actor, even if he never fully lost the persona of the lover. Still, though, the appropriate level of Iago's deceitfulness was there and palpable. De la Vega held the final note out, cutting off his note precisely as it was required, leaving a resonating sound through the theatre, and Reyer nodded, marking a few things on his paper, "Thank you, Señor. Now for your sight reading, we will ask you to sing the piece from _Cosí fan tutte_._"_

Erik glanced at the music director and the manager, waiting for their reactions. Reyer's face was impassive, as it usually was in any good judge, so he would not show his prejudice from one singer to another. Constance, however, sat quietly, and looked supremely serene as she listened to the Italian aria sung expertly by the baritone. He really was an impressive singer, and it was obvious that Reyer would be asking Vega to join the Opera Populaire. Erik glanced back at Constance, who now sat with her eyes closed, a smile of happiness on her face as though she were remembering a moment better spent somewhere else and with someone else who cared deeply for her.

Or was she just so taken with the music she could not help but close her eyes and get lost in it?

Reyer called for the baritone to stop, and thanked him for coming to the Opera. Vega bowed his head slightly in recognition, walking off stage right. Soon following came the group of tenors who were mostly talented, and then the altos, where women started to show up to the auditions. He always found it odd how the women always seemed to naturally have more talent than the men.

Perhaps it was just a peculiarity of nature…

After the altos finished with their auditions, Constance called a recess for luncheon, and he was left alone in the quiet auditorium, staring at the empty stage and slipping into his own reverie. The music of his opera played loudly in his head, like it was only just being preformed by the orchestra, lulling him into an even deeper state of despair. He could still imagine himself slinking about the stage in his Spanish-inspired costume, masquerading as Don Juan and Piangi. He moved carefully about, stalking the most tempting prey in all the wide world (he was sure that she was the most tempting prey, at least). She knew who he was almost instantly… she knew the voice of her Angel… no matter how much he tried to disguise it. He sang to her with all the passion he could muster, trying to illustrate for her the ardent pleasures he so wished to share with the beauty Christine Daaé added to his life. For a moment, he had her entranced, and he thought that there was a chance he would yet persuade her into staying in his life.

Somehow, though, she had been able to pull out of the trance and unmask him in front of everyone, betraying him. The sounds of the shrieks and gasps from the audience echoed throughout the auditorium, and he could still see the disgust on Christine's face as she looked up at him. Emotion found him, and he felt tears well in his eyes, but willed them not to spill over.

Why did he sit here and relive that fateful night all of the time? It only made him angry, jealous and miserable all in fell swoop.

He sighed and stood from his seat, planning to leave for a bit and collect himself, but as he turned to the side to go to his panel, he saw the shadow standing in the back of the box. She sighed and walked forward, stepping into the solitary stream of light shining in from the open curtain box entrance. "Madame."

She gave him a sad smile, one of the ones that were so full of pity it was almost too painful to know it was your horrible being that had caused it. "Erik."

"Welcome back to the Opera Populaire," he said, looking closely at her. It appeared that nothing had changed about her in the past few years, her face still exceptionally youthful despite the experience and wisdom present in her clear blue eyes.

"Should I say the same to you?" she questioned quietly, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze as though she were trying to read into his soul to see if he had changed at all. She sighed, "Erik, it is truly good to see that you are well. Not a day has gone by that I have not thought about you and wondered what had happened to you."

He turned from her and looked back out upon the theatre and let a breath out of his body, "And yet you did not come back in all that time to see that I was well?"

"What would you have had me do?" she questioned. "I left you what I could… and I did not know where you had gone. I worried for you, Erik, but I could not come back to the Opera to search for you. I needed to find employment elsewhere so that I could survive… so that both Meg and I could survive."

He remained silent for a few moments, looking at her, "You were not disgusted with what I did? I think that is why you did not come back."

She pressed her lips into a firm line, and said, "I was dismayed by what you did, Erik, but I cannot hold that in my heart. You did the right thing by letting Christine and Raoul go. We all have our less than reputable moments."

"I let her go because I was weak," he said bitterly.

Giry sighed and closed her eyes for a few moments before opening them to look at him, "Erik, you do not plan on hurting Christine or Raoul, do you?"

Erik bit his tongue, and grumbled, "I cannot do anything to them… or I will not receive my salary."

He watched as her eyes widened in surprise, "How did that happen? You never strike a deal with anyone. It is all or nothing with you."

"I do not know how it happened! One moment I was in control of the conversation, and the next the damned manager was telling me what I was going to do," he explained angrily. "I had no choice but to agree to the condition she set forth… I need funds terribly."

"Even if you needed money, you are too stubborn to give in," she said. "The new manager must have done something else…"

"Besides the fact that all she has to do is say a word and I could be found and killed?" he questioned. "Do you not know how they are connected with the Chagnys?"

She shrugged her shoulders, "I imagine they know each other because of their societal ties. I only know what Christine has said to me in passing about the Duc's and the Comte's close working relationship."

He shook his head, "The Comte's sister is the Duc's wife. If that was not enough, the Comte has his eye on the woman manager! She was barely able to talk the Comte de Chagny out of calling a search for me again when he found the note I had written her."

Giry smiled knowingly after a bit and nodded her head, "You agreed to the conditions of your money because she worked so hard to talk him out of coming after you. I never thought it was possible, but you actually developed an understanding of the concept of one good deed for another."

"I never had to worry about it before…" he said flatly. "Why must I now?"

"Because people feared you, either because of the way you haunted the Opera, or if they saw your face…" she replied. "This manager does not fear you. That is what the difference is… she knows the full depth of your offenses from Christine and from the Chagnys. She came prepared for your presence, even though they told her you were gone."

Could that have been why Constance could so easily talk him into things he had no intention of being talked into? Because she was prepared?

Giry continued, "I think her being here is a good thing for you, she will keep you under control."

"My control was not a problem," he said, glaring at her.

"No, but the instant strange things start to happen again, she is prepared to have you taken care of," Giry warned. "She told me to warn her if I knew of any scheming on your part. I fully intend to do that Erik, mark my words. Even though I consider you a friend, I will not hesitate to tell her. Just because you are 'different' from everyone else doesn't mean you can have special privileges to create havoc and not adhere to the proper ethics of everyone else… I do not care how much you loved Christine. There is no excuse for killing people, or dropping chandeliers on people's heads."

Erik felt the anger in her words of warning, and he, in turn, grew angrier himself (if that was possible), even though he knew what she was saying was true. Painfully true. He always enjoyed his freedom in his Opera, but he realized now that even that freedom had limits when there were others involved. Perhaps he had changed in the past few years without realizing it… but sometimes people just made so unbelievably furious he could not hold it in. He had to do something about those people to get them to comply. Those last moments he spent with Christine in his lair had done something... it had made it undeniably clear that he could not control anything, even through death and chaos. Love _shared_ between two people was one of those things he could not control; others' minds he could not control. Everyone had their own free will. He was just another man like every other man, even if he was more intelligent and had a disfigured face.

But if that were true, then why did Constance do such a sufficient job of controlling his free will? Was it only because he now depended upon her for money? Actually, that did make sense… the moments he had Christine fully believing in his glory came when she was dependent upon him to learn music and how to sing properly, when she had been dependent on his gift. When the Vicomte came along, she no longer needed him to depend on… she depended upon the Vicomte's sickening sweet professions of love to live.

So it was dependence that ruled the free will of others.

"I must go now, the young ballerinas moving into the dormitories are to arrive soon," she said. "Just please, heed my warning."

"I will," he sighed reluctantly.

Giry nodded her head, "Do you need me to do anything for you?"

"When I receive the money…" he began.

"Leave it and your list where you used to. I will see to it that you get what you need," she replied and started out of the box.


	15. Think Of Me

_**A/N: Hears the squeals of excitement from the readers… and hides behind the pile of school books and homework piled in front of me. I'm so sorry about the wait on this one… university is getting out of hand before Spring Break. Hopefully it'll get better afterward. Without further adieu, I give you the new chapter.**_

**_Thank you reviewers for your patience! Please remember to review!_**

Chapter 15- Think Of Me

Constance sighed, easing back onto the comfortable chaise lounge in one of the quiet dressing rooms that were now being prepared for new occupants to move into once the final casting was done. The previous day had been a long one with all that had happened from the Chagnys arriving and then the argument with Erik, but she had not prepared for what she would encounter when she arrived home that night. Joséphine was having a dinner party of sorts for the welcoming of her brothers and Christine. Of course, it was only they who were there, but it still added a good amount of stress onto Constance's shoulders having to deal with Philippe and his rather annoying brother.

If there was one good thing that had come from the whole ordeal, though, it was the realization that Christine was not as accepting as Constance had thought initially, nor as naïve, though it was obvious that she still had much to learn in matters of the world. And while it was wonderful to actually get to know Christine a bit better, that also meant Raoul was in the middle of the conversation, as though he was prepared to jump in without a thought to quell any conversation leaning toward the Opera Ghost or the past in the Opera. After that weekend in the country and her asking Christine for the story of the Opera Ghost, Raoul always seemed wary of her, as though she would put unfathomable ideas into Christine's head. And really, she could not say she had not put any of those 'ideas' into Christine's head, because inviting her back to audition was exactly that.

However, Constance felt secure enough in the realization that Christine had always wanted to come back, Raoul just had never let her until now.

And more so now, than the weekend in the country, Constance noticed how Raoul doted over his wife- actually, more like smothered his wife, doing everything in his power to make her happy, almost as though he were 'buying' her love. It honestly seemed like he felt unworthy to be with her, or at least he felt that he had to give her anything her heart ever desired so that she did not leave him. Constance could guess, though, that Christine would not leave Raoul… even if her soul was unknowingly indentured to another.

Christine may not have realized it, but Constance had a clear sense that the young Vicomtess regularly thought about another man, and not about the man she had married. Wistful sigh after wistful sigh, Constance looked at her, wondering why, if she had been given a choice and had really loved Erik, she would have left with Raoul when Erik let them 'escape' his lair. Of course, Christine was also in love with Raoul, that much was evident, but it was not as deep or soul binding as what the shared gift of music had supposedly done to Christine and Erik.

Why then, if her heart was telling her something different, did she go with Raoul? If Raoul was not what she really wanted, what was the point in staying with 'safe' choice?

It was decisions like these that made Constance dislike people. She believed that if you truly wanted something, you should have it as long as it was not harming anyone else. If Christine considered staying with the Phantom to be a thing that would 'harm' Raoul, then by Constance's thinking, Christine had done the right thing. But then Constance only had to look at the grief and pain in Erik's eyes each time she mentioned the Chagnys and see that Erik was hurt much more than Raoul would have ever been hurt.

Raoul had the luxury, if Christine had not fled the Opera with him, to find another suitable wife more up to his social standing (and Philippe's liking)… even someone he could have loved more. But Erik could not have that luxury… it appeared he _never_ had that sort of luxury in any of his personal dealings. Christine, his one true love, had left him and he would not find another… his only choice was to live in some dark, dank cellar somewhere in the Opera, alone, and in the horrible misery of never being loved.

Constance paused those thoughts for a moment, wondering where they had come from. Was she really rationalizing this? Was she really thinking that Christine had made the wrong decisions? And did she really believe that Christine was supposed to be with Erik, and not with Raoul? Was she feeling sorry for the masked man who had been less than polite to her the previous day… and all the other days they had spoken for that matter?

"Connie, are you in here?"

She jumped up quickly from her lounge, having not expected anyone to come looking for her, or for them to sneak up to the room in such a way that she had not heard them. Or, perhaps, she had just been so into her thoughts of the previous evening, that she could not have possibly heard the approach. She called out feebly, "Yes, I'm in here."

Olivier peeked around the door, and then stepped inside the room, "What are you doing in a room so far back here?"

"Because it was the only place I could guarantee peace and quiet," she remarked wryly, looking at him.

He chuckled, "I am sorry I interrupted you then."

"What is it Olivier?" she questioned, walking around the lounge as her heart beat slowly turned back to normal.

"Nothing," he said with a soft smile. "I just came to check up on my sister, and to see how the auditions are going."

"The auditions are going well… we found a lovely Spanish baritone," Constance replied.

"Perhaps he will help you with your Spanish," Olivier jested, stepping out of the way of her swatting hand.

Really, it was not her fault that she found it hard to wrap her tongue around the Spanish language. It was just an impediment she lived with, and one that her mother had laughed freely at every time they would sit down for lessons. Constance sighed and met his eyes, "And there are still no appearances of anything even resembling a ghost around here."

Olivier was silent for a few moments and sighed heavily, "Am I that easy to see through?"

"Philippe and Raoul have you worried over nothing, Olivier," Constance said. "The Opera Ghost no longer resides here in the Opera. Nothing has happened to suggest it, so I believe we should just leave it at that. Frankly, I am quite angry that none of you will trust my judgment."

"But you've known your fair share of problems because you have told no one about it, thinking you could handle it yourself," Olivier replied. "Lest we forget what happened before I came to England to see how you were after William passed on."

Constance sighed heavily and shook her head, "That was not like this and all this talk of the Opera Ghost."

He crossed his arms over his chest as he rested against the doorframe, "Constance, I will not worry about the Opera Ghost if you look me in the eyes and tell me that you will let me know if anything happens."

She nodded and walked over to him, stopping in front of him to place her hands on his arms. Constance met his eyes, "Olivier, I _promise_."

As soon as she said that, though, she turned away from him, unable to look into his eyes. She hated lying to anyone she loved, especially her brother who had taken her in and given her the care she needed when she returned from England, but she had to do this. If she did not have the Opera House to run, she did not know how she could possibly find anything else more interesting to occupy her time.

Constance sighed and glanced back at him, "Besides, it appears Philippe will be watching too closely over me anyway, so you will need not worry about me."

"Speaking of which," Olivier began, looking closely at her. "I thought you had already decided that you were not going to allow Philippe such an easy time?"

"You said to give him a chance," Constance replied with a half-smile, walking to the mirror in the room and readjusted a few of the pins in her black hair. How did she tell him that she was the one that had invited it on herself when she was trying to talk Philippe out of his 'irrational' thoughts on the Phantom?

He chuckled and rolled his eyes, "You know what I meant… if he is moving too quickly, tell me now and I will tell him to go more slowly. He's been without for so long…"

"You mean to say that he has not properly courted someone in awhile?" she raised a curious brow, looking back at him by his reflection in the mirror. "I doubt that the Comte has kept away from his female companions. I heard something about one of the ballerinas here when he was Patron?"

"La Sorelli," he smiled fondly as though remembering a time better spent with the dancer.

Constance turned to him and raised his brows in question, "I would hate to think that you two did anything together…"

"No," Olivier chuckled. "I'm only recalling one of Philippe's more… colorful… stories."

"Men," she said flatly and shook her head in dismay. While it was a common thing for a man to have a mistress on the side, she really found that another thing in the double standard between men and women she did not like.

Olivier smiled brightly as she closed the distance between them, "Do you have time to have luncheon with the Chagnys and me?"

"I don't think it would be good to be seen cavorting with the Chagnys, especially Christine, before her audition. The last thing I want is for someone to accuse her of getting cast because of familial connections," Constance replied.

"She asked that you would come," Olivier said.

"Then tell her politely that we shall dine together tomorrow, after the company list is posted," she said and looked at Olivier. "It's not that hard to tell the woman you are sorry."

He scoffed and chuckled, "Then can I bring you anything from the Opera café? You did not have breakfast this morning, and since this is your time for luncheon and you are again not eating anything…"

Constance chuckled, "The maid tightened my corset very tightly today… I can barely breathe as it is… much less eat."

"But you have to eat something," he said.

"You're too overprotective of me," she replied, motioning for him to step out of the room. She followed him and closed the door behind her. "I'll be fine."

Olivier looked at her sternly, "Constance…"

"Stop treating me like a child, Olivier," she snapped at him. "I am fine, trust me."

He pursed his lips together out of vexation for her comment and grumbled lowly, shaking his head and offering his arm to her, "Where are you going to go for the next half hour then if you will not eat?"

"I do not know," she said, turning to look at him. "But I think I will go to my office and look over a few things."

Olivier nodded and moved her in that direction. Soon they were in front of the closed door and she turned to look at him, not having to say anything as he nodded his head and backed away from her. He sighed, "I'll expect you to eat a great deal at supper then."

She grunted in the most unfeminine manner, and watched him walk away before turning back to place her hand on the door handle. Turning it slowly, she walked into the room and shut the door, locking everyone and everything out that could possibly annoy her. Perhaps she was not cut out to work in the Opera if the small, insignificant annoyances did so much to anger her. Or perhaps it was just Olivier being too protective of her…

Constance shook her head and let out another long sigh, which was followed by a, "I take it your day is not going well."

She jumped and swirled around, finding the mysterious being sitting in the high-backed chair behind the desk. Glaring at him, she said in a very icy tone, "Why must you do that?"

He shrugged his shoulders with a grace and elegance only he seemed to muster in such a simple movement. Sitting back in the seat, he rested his elbows on the high armrests, placing his hands together and against his lips so that it appeared he as though he were praying. Though it seemed more sinister that anything else. She held his unfeeling stare for a few moments, and then said, "What do you need? I thought you said you would be here _after _the auditions, unless I am mistaken."

"I did say that," he replied, watching her closely as she moved toward the large desk. If she did not know any better, she would say almost admiring her, but she did know better than that. He only looked at her to try to read into her movements and actions to get a better feeling of how he could appropriately manipulate her to his liking.

"And you are here," she pointed out. "Sitting at my desk, with the door unlocked so that anyone could walk in on you. Brilliant."

He gave her an acerbic look, "You think I am that foolish?"

"I don't know if I should think it or not," she said. "All I know about you is that you are overbearing and impolite."

"That's not what it says in here," he replied, lifting up the leather-bound book, filled with her scrawling handwriting. He set the book back down and let out a short sigh, "Shall I read some of it?"

"No," she said breathlessly, not believing that he had actually found her writing journal and had so easily opened it up without asking first to read what was inside.

He licked his lips, " _'Christine de Chagny tells this most startling tale as she gazes longingly out the window into blackened night as though she is thinking of this man, the one who at the very last moment, realized his conscience and let her go to live a life free of darkness. It would seem that the only time she shows a great deal of emotion is when she thinks of or mentions this mysterious masked man, once unmasked for all to see. Perhaps he was not as horrible as Christine or Raoul claim him to be…'_ Shall I continue?"

"Stop reading," she said flatly, walking over to him and reaching for the book. But he was very quick and pulled it away from her as he stood, holding it just high enough over her head with the aide of his tall frame so that she could not reach it.

"But I would like to continue," he said. "You paint me as a very different man than what you verbalize about me."

"I suppose you have not read the latest entries then," she replied bitterly, reaching for it again.

He shook his head, and gave her a smile that made her skin crawl, "Do you know what this tells me, dear Madame?"

"What?" she questioned, not really wanting to know the answer.

"That you say one thing and do the exact opposite," he answered, as though he were chastising her. "That is not a very good quality in anyone."

Constance reached for the book again, and he lowered it just enough so that she could get a good grasp on it. She tried to pull it away, but he kept it firmly in his grasp as well. She met his eyes, "Do not think I won't hurt you if you continue with this nonsense. Those are for my eyes alone, and you are completely despicable for even looking through my things and reading them."

"Hurt me how?" he said derisively, giving her a challenging look, but held her gaze.

She did not answer and quickly brought her right hand up to slap him, but she found that it did not touch skin at all. Surprised that she had not made impact with his cheek, Constance did a double take, looking at her hand to learn the reason why she had been stopped or her hand had not obeyed her mind. There was his left gloved hand, circled about her tiny wrist, gripping quite painfully. How had he done that? She moved quickly to slap him. Had he preconceived what she was going to do? Had he been able to tell in her eyes? What enabled him to move _that_ unbelievably quickly, like a striking snake?

"Let go of my wrist, you're hurting me," she spit out.

He loosened his iron-tight grip about her wrist, but still held it firmly enough that she could not pull it away, "You will see, Madame, that you are no match for me."

"Shall I call for the Chagnys?" she questioned, both locking their gazes in one more epic battle of wills.

He did not remove his hand from her, "Be my guest… for I know you will say one thing and do the opposite, Madame."

Loosening his grip on the book, she pulled it away and quickly turned from him as he let go of her wrist. She slipped the book beneath her arm and used her left hand to massage the skin that would probably yield bruises she would have to explain later. He let out a grunt of indignation, and turned in a flurry of black cloak for his exit, but stopped suddenly.

"What?" she called out.

"I do like the style in which you write, though it is often very macabre," he remarked. "Perhaps we are alike if our thoughts are of those things."

And he left her again, to the quiet of the room, the old clock on the wall the only sound audible, besides her angry, heavy breathing.


	16. Darkness

_**A/N: Again, I am so sorry about the wait. Spring Break came and went… and I got absolutely no writing done. Then this weekend, I was hit sufficiently over the head with a bad head cold. Everyday I look at this site, seeing the hit counter go up, and know you're antsy for a new one. **_

_**However, remember, I still like comments if you want to leave one.**_

_**A reminder to everyone: I am taking from Leroux, ALW, and the movie. This chapter in some instances combines all of the above.**_

**_I promise another chapter soon!_**

**_Thank you for waiting! I hope you enjoy._**

Chapter 16- Darkness

He knew it was wrong of him to go snooping and read the journal she kept, but it was just sitting there, upon the desk, as though she were trying to test him to see if he would actually read it or not on his movements about the Opera. Well, he was tempted, and it was for the sole purpose of getting better into that vile woman's mind so that he could eventually control her like he controlled everyone else. Some the things he read, tough… some of those dark things… he could have sworn it was himself who had written them. He never thought a woman could think such dark thoughts, but it was apparent that she was suffering through something much like he was. She had lost the person she loved dearly, and she expressed that unquenchable pain in loneliness through her words. Her macabre words. But it was apparent she was slowly, but surely, learning to live with that loneliness and the thought that she would never share her life with anyone she truly loved again.

Still, though, he still could not totally get past the fact that she was completely capable of going out and at least finding happiness with someone else. She was still youthful, even if she said she was not. She was quite pleasing to one's eyes, though not as beautiful as Christine. She was quite intriguing in so many ways… dare he say even an intellectual match to someone like himself? Her writing showcased that much if no one even spoke a word to the quick-witted woman. He did have to realize, nonetheless, that men like the Chagnys did not want that kind of woman. They wanted a wife who was content to do nothing but take tea with other society women, gossip endlessly about this trivial thing or that trivial thing, and be pretty on their arms at social engagements.

He was quite certain that Constance would rather die than be placed in that situation. And if she was in that situation, she would die if she could open her mouth to express her views freely enough. And she most definitely would not marry anyone out of her station. So perhaps she would be lonely forever.

What surprised him the most, though, was what she had written about him. Every time he was around her, she acted as though she were disgusted with him or, at least, displeased about having to deal with. Her words led him to believe something quite different. Reading past the part where she retold Christine's story, he came across more current entries about himself and the meetings she had had with him. And what was there was completely different than he would have expected. She wrote the things he expected- that she pitied him and that she wondered just where his home was. But she also wrote that she saw him not as an adversary, but as a business partner-like person. Someone who understood her. As a possible ally and friend.

A friend!

It was so absurd, he had almost laughed out loud at it. How could she think that with the way she acted toward him? How could he ever believe her intentions were that good? Was she intending to lure him out of his darkness so that she could at last have the final blow at what was left of his already shredded dignity and empty life? What would that final blow be? Would she go back on her word and tell someone that he still resided in the Opera?

Was she that deceitful?

He could honestly say he did not know if she would or could ever be that deceitful or not, not being able to pin down her personality exactly, though he usually considered himself a good judge of character right from the start. Oh how she vexed him! The uninvolved look she often wore, he felt, veiled her face and real intentions, and was something that could potentially be a great deal of trouble for him. He could never quite get a good idea about what she was thinking. And now, with her saying one thing, and thinking another, he did not know what to believe. So for now, he would remain his guarded self, being ever wary of the woman.

He could not trust anyone… not yet, and he was sure he almost never would be able to trust. Not after Christine.

Coming back out into his box, he sat down in the shadowed seat, finding that the auditions had already progressed to the mezzo-sopranos. He had not realized he had spent so much time walking around the dark passageways thinking to himself about the vexing creature that was _his_ manager. Lefevre was an easy one to understand; Firmin and André were slightly more difficult, but still quite easy. So why was this woman a complete riddle to him? Was it just because she was a woman? The minds of men were always particularly one-track, he had to admit. Perhaps that was why they were so easy to manipulate. The minds of women, however, in his very limited experience of women, were always deceiving and plotting and well guarded.

This woman was beyond regular women, however, and for a quick moment, he felt slight desperation that he would never actually have the upper hand in anything again having to do with this Opera, despite the argument that had occurred already this day, and with what he knew from reading her journal.

He shifted in his seat, uneasiness filling his senses. Looking down at the proceedings, though, told him exactly why he was feeling ill at ease. Constance was sitting in the spot she had been earlier in the day, but instead of watching the performers, or looking through paperwork, her murky green eyes were focused on his box with her face contorted into a pinched look of resentment. He knew she could not see him from where the seat was, further back into the box, and without a lighted chandelier hanging overhead to illuminate the building. Did she know he was there? Had she sensed him there? She certainly had not been gazing up at the box when he had reemerged.

Reyer thanked the vocalist on stage, and Constance turned her attention in that direction. He saw her shoulders heave in an exaggerated, disgruntled sigh as she gave a quick disgusted shake of her head. She smiled at the woman on stage and glanced at Reyer again, then down at her papers as silence filled the auditorium and no others appeared for auditions. He supposed that the mezzo auditions were now complete, and they were waiting for the sopranos to arrive. These women trickled into the room slowly, seemingly thinking that they were a shoo-in for Prima Donna with their heads held high, noses snootily placed in the air. That was just what the Opera Populaire needed, another one like Carlotta. But he was safe in the thought that once Christine arrived, there would no doubt as to who would be Prima Donna.

The doors opened again, and in strode the elder Chagny brother, as though he owned the place. Constance turned in her seat, toward the commotion, standing up quickly to go to him. She smoothed her crinkled dress out as she walked, stopping in front of him. Philippe smiled brightly and made to lean down over her, to kiss her not on the cheek like was appropriate, but squarely on her lips in front of everyone there as though it were his right and that Constance was already his wife. Constance, though, realized that, and quickly moved her head, so that his lips did land on her cheek and at an awkward position. Philippe stepped back from her, a look of dejection clearly written on his face.

Erik laughed to himself. Was it so horrible that he got a sick sort of pleasure from watching that play out? Really, seeing that even the elder of the Chagny brothers, and the more debonair of the two, could not have the same yielding affect on all women was quite refreshing. He had seen many a time that Philippe had made acquaintances within the Opera, during the time that he was Patron, but nearly every woman he came into contact with was more than willing to disrobe and lay on a bed so that Philippe could have his way with them. Even the affluent daughters of dignitaries and society men, held to a higher standard than everyone else, would literally bend over backwards for him. After all, he had seen bits of that through the mirror-blocked passageways.

And Philippe's sniveling rat of a brother was no different either.

Constance said something to Philippe in a snippy manner, and the look on Philippe's face grew even more dejected. Erik had to congratulate her on being able to put the man in his place… just like she had done a good number of times with him. So he was not the only one.

From the doorway, he saw Raoul enter with the beautiful Christine on his arm. She wore a particularly splendid dress for the occasion, though it was not quite that of what she would wear for a performance or a ball, but she had dressed the part. Oh what joys money could buy! Confidence exuded from her, something that he had rarely seen from her in all the time he was giving her lessons. That was why she had been so easy to manipulate. He had been her confidence. She had the voice… she just needed the confidence to sing… the confidence that her father gave her before he passed away. But she was different now. Stronger. Not as a resigned to the world.

What he had preyed on was her need for companionship; her need for someone to run her life for her. He was content to use his powers to trick her, so that she would love him unconditionally. And since her mind had never matured until the likes of the Vicomte came around, he had had a very good shot at succeeding in having her. He had never wanted a woman who could think for herself and one day realize what wool he had been pulling over her eyes or, at least, see the hideousness that was his face and run away from him. But Christine had realized it, the instant she saw what mature, proper love was.

Perhaps he had only liked the _idea_ of Christine. Perhaps he had only _loved_ the idea of Christine.

The thought sent a chill through his already cold body, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Had he really gotten so obsessed with that thought that he had made himself believe he was in love with her? No, he had been in love with her. That was the only explanation to why he felt as he did every time he thought of her- like his heart, that had only ever been alive with her around and singing for him, was being ripped from his body.

Constance cleared her throat, and called out, "Messieurs, I am afraid this is a closed audition for the performers only."

Raoul stopped and looked at his wife. Christine smiled brightly, turning to Raoul, and saying something to him in a whisper. He nodded, kissing her deeply before uttering what sounded like a 'good luck' from Erik's vantage, Philippe joining his brother as they went out of the theatre and closed the doors. Christine let out a long sigh, slipping into a seat, waiting patiently to be called to her audition. The singers dwindled down slowly, and none of them were very good. There was one or two that would probably be signed on for lesser positions in the Opera, and probably as an understudy for Christine.

When it finally came time for Christine, she mounted the wooden stage, gliding across it effortlessly to come to stand still facing out into the audience. She cleared her throat and smiled, her dark eyes lighting up with glee, her cheeks flushing with excitement. Oh how he had loved to watch her prepare to sing. Reyer smiled back at her, "It is good to see you back again, Madame. I do not believe we will need you to do the two pieces as required by the others."

"Please, Monsieur, do not treat me with any great favor," she said. "I wish to earn this spot as fairly as possible."

Reyer nodded his head, "Very well, Madame. What is your prepared piece?"

"I will sing 'O Patria Mia' from _Aïda_," Christine said, and wasted no time in her rendition of the song. The instant she opened her mouth, Erik found that he was utterly beside himself… like it once was between them a few years ago before that fateful night. She sang with such beauty, her voice complete perfection, even after being without his teachings. Her confidence allowed her this perfection without him. And that hurt him greatly. She most certainly no longer needed him.

Tears crept to his eyes, and he willed them away as best it could, but it was useless. Useless to try and not cry over her. He had stopped for the past few years, finding some peace in his loneliness, but now with her back, the salty tears stinging his eyes were more prevalent. Pulling his mask away from his face, he brought his gloved hands up and quickly brushed the tears away, trying to get control of his emotions before he did something infinitely senseless.

She held her last note, as clear as a bell, and released expertly, her chest heaving for air. Reyer nodded, a large smile on his features, "And let us hear 'Think Of Me' for your sight reading."

"But Monsieur," she began.

He held his hand up to silence her, "I know Madame, but you must know by now that you are to be the Prima Donna. Sing it for us."

"Yes, Monsieur," she beamed, and cleared her throat as the pianist played the entrance to the music. Memories of that night, seemingly now so long ago, flooded his head. That night he had listened to her from below the stage. The night he led her down the cellars of the Opera to his home. It was that night and the following morning he had laid bare all of his intentions to her. It was the last night he felt her completely pliable to his will… as he ran his hands along her lithe body as a regular man would have. The night he had laid her in his bed...

Before he knew it, the music was over and Christine bowed her head slightly as she made her way off of the stage. He watched her closely, closing his eyes for a moment in another hope for some kind of emotional control, opening them back up only to find her now glancing up at the box. Was she looking for him? Remembering him? The look on her face was now one of great regret and sadness. Could she really be remembering him and regretting the choice she had made?

If so, then it served her right. She had her chance, and it was now gone. He could never allow her to nearly incapacitate him again.

Her eyes drifted away, down to the floor as she continued along the aisle toward the doors to exit the auditorium. He let out a long, heavy breath. This was going to be more than very difficult having her back in the Opera… he was sure of that now. Trying to keep his mind away from her would be useless, and then, slowly, wanting to touch her and be with her would begin to take precedent over everything in his life… he could already feel it. There was a very real possibility he could repeat his terrorization of the Opera again, because of her.

But he did not want to do it. He would fight it away as long as he could. Hopefully by then, he would find someway to deal with it… perhaps by pouring it into another piece of music.

Or could he go and speak about it to Constance? After all, she seemed so willing to give advice when it was not wanted. The one thing, though, that she could do very easily that no other could, was anger him to no end so that all he could think about was her. That was a good thing. Maybe he would have to visit her more often if it meant his mind was taken away from Christine, whether they were friendly conversations or not.

He shook his head angrily, at the thought that he was again having to depend on the manager for his livelihood. Standing from his seat, he replaced the mask on his face, and made for the side panel and left to pace about the secret passageways for a bit until everyone left. How was he to live with this?


	17. A Close Call

_A/N: I hope you all are enjoying, and please, please, please remember to review! I love to hear from all of you, but know I don't expect them before I post some more. Though, I will be honest and say reviews do speed me along because they let me know someone else is reading and enjoying!_

_Taking on the more "magical" Erik bit._

_Again, I am so very sorry about the wait on this one. I've got two other fictions beside this going, and it's hard to keep up with them! This is a short one for now, to tide you over until later._

**Chapter 17- A Close Call**

Constance sighed heavily to herself, setting the oil lamp down on top of the small upright piano upon the stage they had used today for auditions. It had been an incredibly long day, from all of the singing she had heard ranging from downright atrocious to exceedingly beautiful, and finally to her dealings with Erik. She had been so mad at him for snooping, but after a short length of time, she found she was not that angry about it. Of course she was still angry that he had turned her words around, and used it against her, to try to one-up here in his little game of wits, but what he had read was not that horrible. She was actually almost happy that he read the parts about Christine. Perhaps it would make him start to think about Christine in a new light, or conversely make him see the obviousness of Christine's continued admiration and even love for him, while she remained married to Raoul. Make him yearn for the thing he most certainly could not have now…

Then there had been the whole incident with Philippe that day. She had hated how he just walked into the room as though he owned the place, or at least was Patron again, and owned her with the way he had meant to kiss her. Constance could not help but scold herself for inviting it upon herself on the previous day when the Chagnys first arrived. He expected to be able to act like that now…

But she still did not understand why he was acting in such a way in public. The Chagnys never, ever acted so frivolously in public. It was a mystery, and one that gave her an even larger headache than the one created by everything else.

At least a few good things had happened during the day, and that was being able to cast Christine as soprano and finding the marvelous talent that was Gabriel de la Vega.

Constance sat down on the piano bench, adjusting her skirts, and looked out into the darkened auditorium. They really did need a chandelier, but the chandelier makers were still in the process of designing one for them. She would just have to make do until then. Turning around to face the piano, she adjusted her skirts again, touching the ivory keys in no particular order, delighting in the high tinkling filtering through the auditorium. She played around a bit, hitting each of the white and black keys in succession to each other from the lowest note to the highest. Then, in her completely horrid technique and rhythm, she began to punch away at the keys, creating something that could have resembled music, though she was sure it was not recognizable as Beethoven.

How she wished she could play… just to be able to relive her happier times with William.

She stopped her tinkering, and shut the key cover, resting her elbows on it and her head in her hands. Hearing a quiet scamper across the stage, she glanced up quickly, finding one of the feral cats that ran wild about the Opera and took care of their mice extermination. The gray feline chased the mouse behind something he could not reach, and turned back to her, deciding to give up the chase. Its large green eyes met hers briefly, the eyes glowing oddly in the light of her lamp, before arching its back and scurrying away as though something had scared it.

Constance turned her head again, looking at the lamp light closely, realizing then that two other green eyes were standing behind the piano and peering down at her. She grasped for her chest, and jumped slightly, her brain finally working out the shape and the look of malcontent on the person's face. "Damn you."

"As always, dear Madame, a pleasure to see you," he said quietly, almost in a jest.

"I suppose you came for your money," she said.

Erik afforded her a slight, devious smirk, patting his overcoat. "I have it already, Madame."

She would have fought him about that, but she just did not have it in her after this long day, "How did you get it?"

"I have my ways," he replied quietly.

"Very well," she said, yawning slightly and turned her gaze away from him, hoping he would understand her motions as wishing to see him gone. But he did not move, and his eyes remained on her, cutting into her with his icy stare, as though he were trying to get a better understanding of her. She at least hoped he could not read minds, for all his other seemingly magical abilities were enough to try to comprehend, and she wanted at least one thing secret to herself.

After a bit longer, he cleared his throat, "Can you not play? Or were you doing that horrid rendition of Beethoven on purpose to draw me from my home?"

Constance glared at him, "No, I cannot play."

"Don't all society girls have some talent in the arts?" he questioned jeeringly.

"I tried to dance and I tripped over my feet. I tried to paint, but my flower looked like a horrid discolored spot on the canvas. And when they introduced to me to music, I loved it, but could I play it? No," she said quietly. "My rhythm and coordination are terrible."

He was silent for a bit, listening to her with the same jeering expression, but it softened slightly.

She sighed, "So they put a pen in my hand a piece of paper beneath. That is my art."

"You are rather forthcoming with your conversation this evening," he said.

"What is the point to hiding it?" she asked. "If you wanted to find out this information, you could have."

"You are learning," he said. "You are not as dense as I took you for."

She glared at him, shaking her head, "You know, you might actually get more done being pleasant with people."

"I've tried being pleasant, Madame, and they do not listen to pleasant," he spoke harshly. "But they do respond to force and anger."

"This Opera is under new management, _Erik_, and this manager will not respond to continued attacks of character to break one's spirit down enough to give into your wishes," she said resolutely.

He met her eyes, "You are an ass that will not be moved by it's master's whip."

Constance scoffed, "Good sir, you are not my master, nor will you ever be."

"We shall see whom is in control," he said.

She stood up quickly, thoroughly angry now, "I am offering you a friendly countenance. Why can you not accept it?"

He was silent for some time, staring at her, trying to burn her with his cold gaze. His lips twitched, evidence of his anger, and she expected him to say something, but he did not.

"Answer me," she said.

"It cannot be friendly if at any moment you could let my secret slip," he said.

Constance grunted in an unladylike fashion, "I thought you knew by now I have no intention of letting anyone know of your whereabouts. If I did, I would lose the one thing that means anything to me any more."

"I do not know what I should believe about you," he said flatly. "But perhaps we will try this pleasantness and friendliness."

"Are you even capable of it?" she questioned bitterly.

Erik glared.

She sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of her nose, "It would be easier upon us both if we call a truce."

He nodded slightly, "We shall see how this goes."

Constance met his eyes, and thrust her hand out between them, "A truce, then."

Erik looked at her skeptically, as though she were trying to deceive him again, but he accepted her hand, shaking it firmly. "If you do not hold true to your word…"

"Then fire and brimstone shall be thrust down upon me," she said, letting a small smile cross her face.

He sighed heavily and walked around the piano now, sitting down in her vacated seat, slowly making to pull off his gloves. She watched him do this with great interest, finding that there was not much different about his hands than a regular man's hands. Why did he hide them then? Was it just an extension of the security of the mask? He looked up at her, "You were trying to play Moonlight Sonata, weren't you?"

"I was," she replied.

"Why do you know that one?" he questioned, meeting her eyes.

"My husband," she said quietly, looking closely at him. Sometimes she wished she could just reach across and rip his mask from his face. She so wanted to know what was beneath.

He sighed, "I see."

"He toiled greatly, trying to teach me after we married, but I could never learn," she said. "I was more content to sit and listen to him play."

"He knew how to play?" he questioned. "It is odd for a male in society to retain those skills, even if he is taught them at a young age."

"Music and horses," Constance replied, letting a small laugh from her lips. "Those were his loves. I often wondered if I was third upon that list."

Erik was silent for a moment, looking at her. "Is that why you are here, and managing this Opera? Being around the music… does it remind you of him?"

She nodded, feeling the sadness rise up in her body again.

"That is why you will not tell anyone I am here," he said confidently. "Because you would lose this chance to live again through music and the remembrance of your husband, should they know I was here."

"Yes," she said simply.

Erik turned his eyes away from her, "We are similar creatures, you and I."

"As much as it pains you to admit," she said.

"I find it humorous that we both use music to escape from our sadness," he said. "And yet it only brings back painful memories."

"You should be careful, Monsieur, you are bordering upon civility," she said quietly, trying to get herself to quit thinking of this quiet situation and the fact that he was bringing up memories she would rather relive on her own. How could this man go from complete arrogance and coolness, to one now that seemed to be caring and even perhaps, accepting?

He gave a small sound of disgust, and turned back toward the piano, poising his hands over the ivory keys. Slowly, his long fingers moved over them, barely brushing each one as though he never needed to push on the keys to make the sound come. But he was playing this piece expertly, and from memory, and she was utterly amazed by it. Why was he playing this now? For her? As a sign that he would try to be friendly?

She doubted it.

But there was that possibility.

Before she knew what was happening, though, he grabbed his gloves and disappeared into the shadows. She looked at the piano bench, completely bewildered by what had just happened. That was until she heard the loud, unforgiving creak to the large auditorium doors. Constance glanced quickly toward the doors, watching the figure descend to the stage, finding that it was a well-dressed Philippe. He smiled at her, "Do not stop playing because of me. It was quite lovely."

Constance searched for someway to respond to that, but she could find none.

"Why are you here?" she questioned.

"Olivier said I should come for you," he replied, walking around the stage. "You must come home earlier than you have the past few evenings. We are having a celebration for Christine."

Constance pursed her lips together, "You are attending a party for Christine Daaé?"

"I must, to show support for my brother," he said. "He has asked me to be Marguerite's godfather. Christine was not happy with it. I suppose I should try to see a better side of her."

"As though loving your brother was not enough," Constance replied sarcastically, sitting down on the piano bench again.

He afforded her a terse glance, and said, "When did you learn to play the piano? You could do nothing of the sort when I knew you."

"I…" she began. He was backing her into a corner again.

"Especially with such feeling as I just heard," he said.

Constance looked at him, "I suppose I picked up some rhythm somewhere."

Philippe gazed down upon her, as though he were trying to read her thoughts. She could plainly see it in his eyes that he did not believe her. She had been so horrible as a young girl and woman, before leaving with William, Philippe knew well enough her capabilities. And with the magic that Erik had played the small bit of the song, from a life of living music and nothing but music, she knew Philippe could see through this guise.

"Please, play for me," he said.

"Philippe…" she began, "I really should not."

He raised a challenging brow and motioned to the keys, "Please."

Constance took a deep breath, and looked down at the piano. What was she going to do? Lifting her fingers over them, she decided she would fumble quickly and say it was because someone was standing over her, watching. That would work. Would it not?

"Why are you so worried if you can play it?" he questioned.

She took another breath, and pressed down on the first key that she knew well enough. Then came the second key, at the correct time and without a fumble. The third. Then the fourth… the twentieth… fortieth. All in time, and with as much passion as Erik had played.

She noticed something, though. It was not her moving her hands. Well, it was her fingers hitting the keys, but it did not feel like herself within her body. It was a strange feeling, like something was in her mind, controlling her movements, bending her to its will. Constance felt powerless against it, trying to pull her fingers from the keys to end it. She had to stop it somehow. The feeling was too intense, and something she was not prepared to handle.

She was a puppet on a puppet-master's strings and nothing more.

Finally, she was released from the firm grasp, and she felt air fill back into her lungs, her chest heaving slightly, from what she did not know. She was not physically exerted at all.

Constance struggled for her voice, but looked up at Philippe. He sighed defeatedly, "I shall be outside when you are ready."

He disappeared quickly enough, almost as though he were angry that he had not been able to call her on her lie. She looked around, bewildered, trying to understand what had just happened. Turning back to the keys, she tried to repeat what she had just done, but after the third note, she cringed as her fingers fumbled mercilessly and she could not continue.

What had come over her?

She stood from the seat, and stepped away from piano, still trying to recover from her daze. Glancing around the dark stage area again, she caught the outline of the darkly-dressed man, a serious look upon his white mask-clad face, before he turned on his heel and vanished back into the shadows. It could not have been him, could it? He was not able to control minds. He would have been able to do that already. Right?

Had it been him?

A shiver went up her spine, and she let out a long breath, the afterglow of that experience then dissipating quickly.

However much she was offended that he had used whatever seeming power he had on her, she was glad that he had, because Philippe would have ousted her without hesitation.

"Thank you, Erik," she whispered into the darkness.

And somewhere she could imagine him smile… if he could smile at all.


End file.
